Dark Forest
by anarithilien
Summary: MEFA 2011 3rd Place Winner! When Legolas and Gimli venture into Fangorn, they unwittingly find danger while uncovering long-hidden secrets of elven past. With Thranduil, Celeborn, Galadriel, Narvi, Celebrimbor, and a cast of OCs.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Rights to the "Lord of the Rings" characters and places belong to the Tolkien estate. This author is simply borrowing them for the purposes of writing a story that will garner her no wealth or fame. This fiction is done strictly for the fun of it. Thus, try not to take it too seriously and be nice to the author if you can.

**Summary: **When Legolas and Gimli venture into Fangorn, little do they realize the danger they are about to meet or the wretched secrets they will uncover from ages past. Rated M.

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Prologue_

_Pain!_

A knife of horrible agony stabbed into his thigh. A jarring move. A stumbling step. The cradle in which he was being carried rocked and the dark void of nothingness was gone.

It was replaced with this torture. Searing, wretched, writhing pain. He cried out, not even ashamed that he did so. He made no attempt to refrain. All he knew was the swift agony that took him with the hurt. His eyes sealed tight, holding back the tears as a ringing droned in his ears and accompanied the incredible ache.

He was moving. Being moved. And he wished only for the motion to stop. The skewed recline that he found himself in only made the pain worse. He moaned aloud in his anguish, trying to find the strength to right his body and to remedy the hurt. He managed to roll to his side. The movement was accompanied by more pain, but it was enough to at least take the distress from his marred left leg. The limb throbbed unmercifully.

But the rocking motion was still there, and it threatened too make him ill, forcing a cold sweat to pour from his brow. He was shivering, he realized, and then he noted that his clothes were soaked through, sticking to his skin. And despite this, he knew also that he felt fevered.

He came to realize he was in shock. His injuries must be bad. But what had caused them? For the moment, all recollection was a blank.

He tried to open his eyes, suddenly realizing that they were sealed. Yes, he was hurt rather seriously if his eyes remained closed. Elves normally did not seal their eyes unless they had suffered dire harm. Further, the orbs seemed determined to stay closed, and no willingness on his part would pry them open.

He supposed it was for the better, for the wicked darkness of unconsciousness seemed to ebb and flow over him. Holding his thoughts to anything was difficult at best.

What had he been trying to realize? Oh yes. He had been trying to remember what had brought him here. But memory was elusive and the ringing sound in his ears, his lack of sight, and the spill of pain that wracked his body were distracting influences. It was only then that he realized his head was in agony as well, the pain before coalescing with all his other hurts to make it into one united form of suffering. But here, now, he could discern the separation of some of his hurts. That, he supposed, was a good thing.

Sound filtered into his consciousness and he only then came to realize someone was speaking.

"… see the harm you caused! I had told you it was a danger. Do you not see what you wrought? Two of my own were harmed because of you! You should be punished! You should know what you might have launched! We are lucky the whole forest was not destroyed in your foolish attempt to escape!..."

The voice droned on, but the scolding nature of it only seemed to repeat, and the pattern became a useless object to grasp. He could make no sense of what was being said, and he began to drift away back into the void where forgetfulness was easier.

_Pain!_

He was being laid down. The movement had ended, but the difficulty of transplanting him to another place of rest caused a new surge of agony to wash over him. His cry was louder than the humble moans he had uttered earlier.

"Hush! Do you want to stir His attention?" the voice chastised.

He could not help the whimper of pain as he again rolled to his side, trying again to ease the horrible agony that electrified all his nerves and made the suffering in his body that much the worse.

And then a cooing voice gently filtered into his ears. It was the same voice as before, only kind now, not brutal and harsh. "You are hurt. Yes, I see…I am sorry! I should have realized. Let us aid you." And then his shoulders were lifted and his head was carefully brought up. Again he tried to open his eyes so that he might see his caretaker, but it was an impossible task. Still the voice spoke. "You must drink this. It will help heal you. It will make you feel strong. It will make you sleep. Drinkdrinkdrink..." the voice faded away.

The rim of a vessel was put to his lips and he could feel liquid poured into him. Too much flowed out of the bowl and much of the contents spilled onto his chest. He gagged on the fluid, but after the initial choking spasm passed, more was plied on him, done so at a slower rate. The fluid was eagerly consumed, his sudden thirst realized with the provision. He immediately began to feel the liquid's effect.

He could not so much discern taste, though he knew there was something brackish in the flavor. He did not care. It quenched his need. What he could sense was the heady lightness the drink brought on. Buoyancy seemed to engulf him, overtaking the hurt, and in a moment all the torment of his pain was gone.

What took its place was a heavy drowsiness that overwhelmed his sick body. He felt his body being moved again, but there was no pain to accompany the activity. He was floating and free. His mind was clearer as a result of the liberation, and slowly Legolas began to remember where he was and all that had happened to him.

TBC


	2. Kept in Secret

**A/N:** A brief explanation/revised summary is in order here. A lot of effort was put into discovering Thranduil and Oropher's history, but it seems that Tolkien told little of them. What we do know is that they became the lords of Greenwood in the Second Age, and it is assumed that Thranduil ascended to the throne after Oropher's death after the Last Alliance. For the purposes of this story, a greater history is being laid, and it will slowly be revealed as the story grows. This will essentially become a tale about Legolas and his father, but it comes about through an adventure that he and Gimli are forced to partake. They will uncover dark secrets of the past. I cannot claim canon, but I can say that I am creating a history created around canon. Some might call that AU. So be it.

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Fangorn  
Chapter One: Kept in Secret_

The sun shone brilliant and bright on the waving fields of grass. The rolling hills and gentle pulse of the amber growth as the wind swept across it gave the dwarf the impression of those undulating tides he had heard tell of the sea. Though Gimli had never seen an ocean before, he imagined that this, except for the hue, was what it must look like. He worried that Legolas might think the same thing, but as he climbed the small slope before him, ambling up it and clearing a path as he did, he could see the jubilation of his companion on the other side. All worry then ceased as he enjoyed the spectacle of his elven friend's play.

The tumbling grasses whisked across his chest, brushing into his beard and leaving seedlings stuck in his coarse hair. The grass here grew unshorn. It was a horse's paradise. Indeed, Arod seemed pleased as he whickered and galloped a frisky path on a lower slope followed by the elf and his joyous voice. The animal was fresh from the slow, methodic trek they had taken across the Rohan plains, and he appeared playful under Legolas' mastering words.

And how long had they been at this sluggish march now? A week? Yet Legolas seemed in no hurry to reach their destination, taking whole days to travel a pittance of distance. It was a vastly different trek from the last time they had crossed these plains. The dwarf did not mind though; he complained little (just enough, he thought, to keep the elf from completely getting lost in this wandering freedom). In truth, Gimli did not rush their time together, despite the fact that he felt sure he might be needed at home.

The Quest was complete. Gimli and Legolas had seen the Hobbits and their royal entourage as far as Isengard before taking their leave of the company. It had been tearful in its end, as had been their goodbyes to Aragorn. Strangely though, it was Gimli who had suffered the more visible melancholy, not Legolas. But now, in their slow trek, Gimli was beginning to understand the elf's true feelings. They ran deeper than he would show. And at the same time the dwarf came to see how the Firstborn might not understand the real sadness of parting. Time was not the same for them. Gimli had long realized this but it had not really been made clear to him until he and Legolas had started their travels unaccompanied. With the others, all things moved in a normal course, but when it was simply he and Legolas, the pattern and feeling of time changed. It mattered little that a day went on, or even the speed of their travels. Somehow Gimli fell into the contemplative meditation of their surroundings, finding at times that hours had passed without his notice, so lost had he been in his study of the world.

And yet, he sensed that Legolas perceived the world differently than he had before this journey. Time and time again the elf had caught himself on the cusp of a breath, gasping as if he realizing something forgotten. He would then turn wide-eyed with worry to the dwarf as he would ask, "Is all well, Gimli?"

It was a strange query to make, but the dwarf understood. Legolas no longer thought only on himself. He had come to appreciate those nearest him. Not that he was beyond it before -- quite the opposite, for he had been a very considerate companion. But somehow in their travels the elf had learned that not all he knew as one of the Firstborn applied to those around him, and mortality was one of those things. He had come to learn that his friends could grow ill; they could die. And unlike the death of those elven beings, there was no second meeting to come. Thus, he seemed to appreciate the company of his friends that much more. "All is well, Legolas," Gimli would answer.

It was this that made him realize how it all fit in an elf's mind. Legolas was distressed that they were leaving the others, but Gimli also knew the elf did not see it as a long departure. This was the lesson Legolas had yet to learn. Though unspoken, it seemed they shared a certainty that they would see their fair friends again. That was not the point. So deep had been the bond between the Nine Walkers that it was hard to imagine that their adventures could ever truly be complete. Unfortunately, Gimli also knew how long it might be before the next step in their journey would begin, and though he could appreciate how that seemed as nothing to Legolas, the reality was that time for the others did not transcend a subtle passing like it did for the elf. Gimli suspected that when he and Legolas next met with their Hobbit friends, Legolas might be astonished by how changed they were.

So too must it be with Gimli. That was disheartening though the dwarf tried to see the brighter side. Their journey was coming to an end, but that did not mean their experiences were done. They would make this final part of the journey together, and then they would go on to their respective homes for a time. But then...? So far as Gimli was concerned, he and Legolas had many more adventures ahead of them. It was only a matter of when time would deliver them to the pair. Now they had the Fangorn promise to see through. Gimli decided he would look no further ahead than this.

Arod whinnied a joyous cry. He scampered about the mounds on the other side of the rise. And playfully dancing around him, as if he were a colt tagging the flanks of the stallion, was Legolas. The laughter of Gimli's elven companion rang in the whispering wind, and the dwarf had to smile at the exuberant mood of his friend. It gladdened his heart to see the elf so light of spirit. It had not been since they had traveled as in Fellowship that he had seen Legolas' more playful ways. These last months had been filled with the elf adapting to the constancy of his sea-longing. It was an ache to Gimli to see Legolas so lost. But this week had found Legolas slowly unbending from that burden.

As he began to descend the hillock, the dwarf's foot slid into a rut and he awkwardly corrected his misstep. It was this action that drew his eyes down, and he saw a deposit of stone scattered amongst the weeds. His immediate reaction was to ignore it. Fallen stones were of no consequence. But then it occurred to him that there was no source for stone in this region. There was nothing but rolling hills and high grass and there were no boulders or cliffs nearby. His focus went then to the stones and he reached down to pick one up. It was solid and heavy in his hand, and the dwarf knew immediately, just by its weight, that it was granite. But once he had the fist-sized rock brushed of dirt and could see it more clearly, his brows came together. He had seen this particular type of granite before and it did not belong on the plains of Rohan.

He felt the rock, cold and ragged under his thumb, and his eye noted the intensity of its amber tones. The color was like that of the yellow grasses. Gimli knew granite came in all manner of color, but only once had he seen it in this particular shade, and that was when he had traveled with the Fellowship. It was almost the color of gold. That was how Gimli thought of it, and that was why he remembered it so vividly.

It had been in Hollin.

_Hollin?_ They were in the middle of Rohan's fields, a good thirty leagues at least from the south reaches of the Misty Mountains, and a good seventy leagues or more from Hollin. How could the stone Gimli had only ever seen in that realm be found here?

He looked at Legolas, wondering if perhaps he should say point it out to his friend. But then he recalled the elf's reactions when they had been in the Eregion region. He did not wish to stir the troubled mood he had conjured then. He had been a poor companion to Legolas then, and he had looked for ways to discredit or confront whenever he could. That is what he remembered most of that day, and he was not proud of his behavior.

Still, the memory was vivid. It had been a day, bright, much like this one, only much crisper in the chill gusts that prevailed on the mountain slopes. The golden stone of Hollin's few remaining structures had gleamed in the sunny tones given the day. Gimli remembered marveling at the stonework, for it was thousands of years old, and yet its detailed carving still stood.

When it had been commented amongst the Fellowship that Hollin was a safe land, Gimli, not fully knowing or understanding his elven companion yet, had been surprised when Legolas had admitted not being familiar with the place. "The Elves of this land were of a race strange to us Silvan folk, and the trees and grass do not now remember them."

Something in that comment rang untrue in the dwarf's ears though no others commented. So he kept his thoughts to himself for the remainder of the day, deciding to confront the elf privately on the matter. He had already found it odd that the elf said nothing of his personal life though all the others had expounded at great length the details of their homelands. The little nugget spilled when the elf had called himself Silvan was curious, for it did not align with other facts that Gimli might have known. It was later, when they had arrived at the remaining artifacts of the city that he took it upon himself to ask. Legolas had gone on to roam the ruins, and following without stealth Gimli had come upon him. He was eager to confront the elf's perplexing comment.

"I thought it was proclaimed you were the son of Thranduil," he said without preamble.

Golden hair blew away from solid shoulders but the elf remained fixed. For a moment Gimli thought the elf might not have heard, but then Legolas turned and stared at him with his piercing eyes. Gimli was taken aback by the coolness in that gaze. He felt as if he was being looked through. Then the elf turned away again dismissively and said, "If that is what was said I will not dispute it."

Gimli's brows furrowed and his eyes squinted as he considered the cold answer, but the apathy and disdain of this elf would not chase him away. Could this strange, gangly creature not see that he was attempting to breach their differences? Deep down he knew that was not his intent, but he placated himself by believing it so. With a grumbled harrumph, he scowled his next query. "Is he not of Sindarin blood?" he asked abruptly, and he thought perhaps that he sounded a bit confrontational. But then again, he was a dwarf and dwarves did not spend a lot of time creating poetic avenues and introductions into speech. This was just how he was and the elf would just have to realize he was attempting to communicate a trust through it.

There was a breathed sigh, and then, "He is." Legolas' answer, as it always seemed when he spoke to the dwarf, was curt.

Gimli waited. It was not unusual to get few details from an elf unless directly asked for, but in this case Gimli felt certain Legolas was refraining simply to irritate him. At the same time, Gimli's would not retreat. Dwarves were notorious for holding on to their efforts. They could be like bulldogs in that respect. But further, Gimli's curiosity was piqued. He did have some knowledge of elven history, and he would know why the elf claimed no knowledge of these passes when the dwarf knew his family members had indeed tread the lands. For all he knew, Legolas might have been born in these mountains. "Then why do you claim to be Silvan when in truth you are Sindarin?"

The truth of it was that none of this was Gimli's business, but the dwarf rather liked the mystery of Legolas' strange statement. He could see the corners of the elf's mouth turn down in a frown and he watched as those long, tapering fingers gripped what looked to be the remnants of a stone rail where moments before they had been caressing it. But then the elf turned again and his eyes gazed at the dwarf as he answered. "My mother's blood was Silvan," he finally said, the note at the end of these words meant to punctuate the conversation's end.

However, the answer made several more questions rise in its place. Yet Gimli discerned that quiet emotion emanated from the elf's reply. There was pain in the answer.

Gimli wondered then if this had gone far enough. Thus far, little had been said, but the dwarf had the impression that it was done so intentionally, as if revealing more would expose something fearful and great.

Still, the dwarf had an agenda, and knowing what the elf was evading was part of it. He knew there would not be discourse unless he offered something of himself first, and so he replied, making it seem that the effort might actually be friendly, not given over to finding weaknesses. "Hmm, yes, well…" he began rather awkwardly, but then he came forth with his reply. "In dwarven custom, we claim our father's line, unless the mother's lineage outranks that of the father. It was my understanding it is much the same among elves."

There was no response from Legolas, and Gimli realized it was because no question had been asked. Were they on closer terms Legolas might have supplied more, but Gimli knew their situation to be otherwise. Gritting his teeth to the vexing nature of the Firstborn, Gimli completed his query. "Are my sources wrong?" he asked somewhat tersely.

Legolas scowled then as if he had hoped the dwarf might be too doltish or stubborn to consider asking. But with a growl he did respond, "How am I to know the credibility of your sources, dwarf?"

It was not an answer. Snarling defensively, Gimli began, "I am only saying--"

But Legolas apparently had had enough of the back and forth in this nonexistent conversation. With a disdainful wave of his hand he said, "For whatever purpose you might seek it, dwarf, I can only say there are many reasons to claim kinship, _beyond those_ of being sired."

Now Gimli frowned. This answer was a puzzle, but it also was telling. Was what he suspected true? Was there poor grace between Legolas and Thranduil? The thought was intriguing though he was unsure it did anything to benefit his own position. Still, in the dwarf's mind, it was a starting place on getting to know the elf and his weaknesses, and since he knew so little, it was more than nothing.

But he had another question he might ask, one not of Thranduil. He was unsure if he could broach it though. This elf was determined to give up as little information as possible and it was becoming a challenge to get it out. Besides, there was decided hostility coming forth. Fortunately, Gimli liked challenges. He waited for a breath to pass before speaking. "You said _was_."

The elf arched a brow in his direction, obviously peeved that the dwarf was still speaking to him. "When?"

The dwarf smirked, enjoying the little play on words he had forced the elf into. "No, _was_."

Legolas' brow furrowed with consternation. "You try to make me look a fool!" and Gimli could not deny it was true. The dwarf could be clever with words too, and if Legolas was going to make a game of being evasive, then Gimli would see to it that he scored a few strikes of his own. "I will ask again: when did I say 'was'?"

"You said, 'My mother's blood _was _silvan,' as if she lived in the past to you. The way you phrased your statement leads me to believe she is gone from this world."

The elf showed no emotion nor did he blink or flinch, but somehow Gimli sensed that he had struck a hard blow. The elf turned back to look at the landscape, and the dwarf saw his nostrils flare on a quavering breath. Through tight lips, the elf finally spoke. "You listen closely to words. I had not expected such attention to be given a dwarf." Then those cold eyes were upon him again and Gimli felt again as if his soul were being burrowed into. "Your skills are too keen to miss this, so heed me now, Master Dwarf. I would only say it once. You may take note of such details as you please, but I would not choose to share more than what you have already guessed. Present tense or past, what you know means nothing!"

Gimli felt the icy stab within the words, but at the same time, he almost smiled. He had come upon something that hurt, and that might be used. With glee, he held this as a treasure in his heart.

And yet…

He could not break his eyes away from the gaze. There was something in the elf's eyes that was… Dare he might consider it, but actually the elf appeared hurt. Gandalf had been making great attempts to bring he and Legolas together, telling them both there were things they might find in common, but Gimli had not suspected this would be one of those things?

Could he go so far as to acknowledge that he saw pain? They had a journey to make, and like it or not they would need to work together. Reluctantly he knew any weaknesses he might utilize would only keep them more distant. Gandalf would wish that he try to bridge the gap. It was a hard thing to pass, but he knew he must free himself of the need to hurt. Indeed he felt pity.

He simply spoke then, almost choking on his sincerity. "I am sorry, elf…About your mother, I mean. I…I know of the heartache felt in losing one so close." It had been a hard thing to admit.

"You know nothing!" Legolas retorted without looking in his direction. It appeared emotions did run deep here.

But Gimli went on as if he had not heard the snarling reply. "My mother … has been departed for nigh a year now. It has not been an easy loss." He averted his eyes as he came forward to stand near the rail next to Legolas.

A long pause followed, and then the elf's voice asked, "She is dead?"

Gimli felt a familiar lump form in his throat as he said, "Even when her young are grown and fully accountable for their own, the pain is unfathomable." He looked then to the elf to see if anything of this was having an effect on the other.

The elf's mouth formed a straight line, as if he were contemplating his next assertion. He seemed to be forming words that would bite, but then he drew them back. He gazed upon the dwarf, then bowed his head slightly as he said, "I am sorry for your loss…Gimli." It had sounded like he choked on the name, but it was the first time the dwarf had actually heard it said by the elf.

It was something -- a step -- Gimli thought, and it was definitely more than they had had when their day had first started. Yet Gimli was hungry for something more from the elf. He still had questions but not the ones he had had before; those had been designed to find hurts. Something had been given, and indeed he would like to build a bond. He pressed on, speaking still of his mother. "I thank you. She… It was she who taught me what I might know of elves and their history."

There was a long pause, and Gimli thought Legolas might be withdrawing comment again after appearing to open up. The dwarf started running possible queries to goad the elf into speaking again when Legolas came to it on his own. "Indeed she was unique," he said, his head bowed as if in respect, "for I was taught that dwarves have no interest in anything elven, save to find ways to make access into their treasuries."

The slight was bold, and the dwarf had not seen it coming. It pained him, but only a little. He supposed he deserved it, knowing his initial reasoning to start this conversation had not been so kind. And so he ignored the comment. He would show the elf he could be more than was assumed.

Instead he smiled at the memory of his mother. "Yes, she was unique. She was fair and kind and there was no other dwarf quite like her. Father would say so in an instant. He misses her greatly. She was readily unusual in her pursuits, and to further it, she really did not care for the opinions of others. She was learned and bookish, where most dwarves are not. She judged people not for past mistakes, but merely for what they contributed in the present."

The elf was looking at him now, watching, and Gimli realized he had shown something of his own vulnerability too. Still, it felt good to speak of her. "And I think these are what made her most appreciated by my father. If you heard the tales you would know that Gloin is not one to choose the ready road. He was the meanderer; she was his prodding reason and he enjoyed a good challenge. He will always take the path less tread upon if given the choice. Time and time again, she was a thorny road for him. But I think they enjoyed it. I think they adored the banter and verbal jousts that were a part of their union."

Legolas' eyes softened with this shared information. "She sounds to be of a good soul. I should have liked to know her."

The conversation could have ended there. But then came the attempt on the elf's part. It startled Gimli to think Legolas might be trying to speak to the dwarf in friendship just as he was doing. But the question that came threw him and he had no time to consider any other motive. "Do you find yourself to be more of her or of the wanderer your father is?"

Gimli laughed, deciding he was delighted to be asked something of a personal nature without having to volunteer it first. "Oh, unfortunately, I seem to have inherited the worst of both. My father and I are ever sparring with words, and I find myself infinitely curious and taken with those things my people might not normally pursue." Looking at his companion, the dwarf added with a friendly smile, "The Sindarin are known to be a curious and wandering people themselves. Too bad you proclaim yourself Silvan, tied to the woodlands alone. Think how much more enjoyable this journey might have been for you were you more of the curious nature of your father's kin, eager to see the world."

There was a glimmer in Legolas' eyes then, and Gimli could not judge if it was the effect of mirth or a small slight. The elf gave no signs though he did smile as he said, "It shall be an interesting journey nonetheless, Master Dwarf. I look forward to seeing if you measure up to your own self-appraisal. But how …? Might I ask without causing hurt … ? How is it that she died?"

Gimli sighed. He had reached a point where he could share an intimate moment or squelch what was there between them. But it was good, this intimacy, painful though the memory was, and thus he gave the truth to his companion. He spoke in a whisper. "Dark men came. They were the servants of Sauron. Of this we have spoken in the Council of Elrond."

"Ai! I am sorry!" the elf proclaimed, but Gimli continued.

"They offered the dwarves a vast wealth in exchange for our loyalty to the dark lord. My mother was vocal in her opposition. She cited history and what had come of those who were Sauron's servants." Gimli bowed his head as the memory flashed before his eyes "She spoke without need, for all knew of the evil that permeated the presence of those men. It was as if treachery was embedded in their very hides. Yet ever as always, she felt compelled to speak. Her mistake was to do so within their presence. What came was…" Gimli's voice trailed off as he shuddered a dread chill.

"What happened?" Legolas asked.

"She was made … example," Gimli replied brusquely. He could say no more. The memory was yet too near, and it angered and saddened him simultaneously. He could feel a constricting lump forming in his throat and he knew if he told all his emotions could not be contained. Yet the memory of finding the tortured remains of her body was still fresh in his mind. Her skull had been crushed and her body torn apart. None among the dwarves would dare claim the cave-in had been an unfortunate accident. The messengers had killed her, right there before them, and hard proof of that crime was not needed. Her scream still rang in his ears. "She was the reason … " His voice broke, but Gimli cleared his throat and repeated, "She was the reason my father and I came as representatives for the dwarves at Elrond's council."

Legolas drew back from the ledge where he stood. He seemed to be weighing what he might say. At last he spoke. "Then indeed it was to your benefit that you came. A common foe we may claim."

"And what of the elves of Mirkwood? Will they be aided as well," Gimli asked as he changed the subject, attempting to remove the thoughts of his mother's death from his mind.

Legolas' mood seemed to change with the mention of his home. "Our king would dare not ask for help, though he has in the past. For too many years now my people have fought an invisible enemy. Few have found our plight worthy of their concerns. I have my doubts that Thranduil would ask or that any would even come forward, save those who also live in the forest realm. My king does not believe in unified causes."

"But there is benefit in our unity! Surely with the destruction of the Ring --" Gimli began.

"Speak not of It here! This is not a safe place for such conversations, Dwarf!" Legolas snapped, his eyes flaring suddenly with the rebuke.

Gimli felt he did not need an elf to scold him for speaking forthright. With a checked tongue he replied, "If the quest is a success, then no war need be declared."

The elf's expression calmed. "That test has not yet been passed, and I fear war will be thrust upon Mirkwood whether what we attempt proves fruitful or not. In Mirkwood, too much ground has already been lost, and the enemy will strike where it sees weakness. There is much that is frail in that realm."

Gimli was shocked by the remark. He never thought he would have heard it said by the elven king's son that Mirkwood was vulnerable. "Mirkwood weak? I think it not so! Your kingdom has remained resolute against its enemies for years uncounted!"

"It has been lacking when it comes to the heart of the matter," the elf replied, throwing his hands up in disappointment.

"What do you mean?" Gimli suddenly asked. This seemed to be the center of those earlier lost questions.

The tight-lipped expression returned to Legolas' face, and the dwarf had the distinct impression his companion realized he had said something more than he meant to. He seemed to ponder his reply, warring with himself. "Nay, nay, I will not say. 'Tis not something that can be shared with the likes of a dwarf. Forgive me for speaking at my ease. I forget myself … my station."

The statement damaged though Gimli could not discern if it had been meant as a barb or just said out of habit. _Station_, he thought as new anger began to billow forth. But then he shook it away. He need not get into an argument over the superiority intimated in those words for he knew what had been earned would be lost if he went forward. Joking instead he said, "What mistake is this? I see nothing that bars you from unburdening your mind. In fact, I like this side of you, elf. I thought you had no thoughts of your own."

Legolas paused, as if suddenly realizing the slight he had spoken. Then with a smile he mocked his own position, "Especially being the Silvan that I am."

The dwarf chuckled. "It is said that the Silvans are content in their woods and that they are aimless and without true direction save their desire to preserve the lands. It is said they are easily led. But if that is so, I think you do not follow the guidelines so prescribed."

"I know of no one who follows the absolutes of all rules," Legolas countered.

"Even dwarves?" Gimli asked, mocking the elf's stereotype that had been painted of the dwarf.

Legolas paused for a moment, and then that smile again nicked the corners of his mouth. "You are the exception to your kind. Ah, but you are clever with words, dwarf. You are your mother's son, or so it appears."

"And I only attempt to find out if you are your mother's son too. If not, then I would think you stand most like your father," Gimli countered.

It was an innocent comment, but Legolas bristled, the mirth suddenly gone from his eyes. Gimli suddenly realized he had stepped too far but he did not know where the wrong footing had occurred.

"I am who I am, dwarf, and you may accept that for whatever value it brings you."

Gimli's jaw dropped at the sudden change in the elf's demeanor. "Did I offend? I am sorry--"

But Legolas cut him short, seeming suddenly very brusque and cold. "For my own part, I have wasted a needless wagging of my tongue in this conversation." The elf then turned away.

Anger, sudden and biting claimed the dwarf then. It was like water steaming when thrown to hot coals. He had been told elves were flighty creatures, but he had never seen proof of it until now. Old prejudices seemed suddenly justified and past animosities found new light. He called after the elf, making the assertion he had found and vowed not to use only minutes before. He had felt kinder then and the words came out cruelly. "Since you will claim none of him as yours, elf, I will then assume you to be ashamed that Thranduil is your sire."

The elf turned and gave the dwarf a scathing look. That should have been enough to silence Gimli, but he felt furious that the elf had given up on their dialogue or attempts at friendship so quickly. Whatever the infraction, it seemed unfair that Gimli was being dismissed without knowing why, especially since the dwarf had given so much information about himself for the sake of forging a relationship. He could not resist adding fuel to his scorn. With a biting tongue he exclaimed, "Then again, were he mine, I would be ashamed too. At least I can claim my sire is one who I openly call 'father'. I have yet to hear you say similar words."

But the elf would not fight, and he silently marched away.

Gimli stepped up to the rail that Legolas had been running his hands over only minutes before. At his feet he had seen more of the golden rock and he bent and picked one up. He looked down on the amber stone as his fingers played upon it. Despite time and its eroding forces, the edges of both the stone and the rail were smooth, as if it were still in use to this day. No blemish in the grain was to be found. He remembered his mother telling him that Oropher and Thranduil had crossed these mountains in a time before reckoning, in the days following Doriath's fall and kin of an elf witch had founded this realm and Celebrimbor had become its successor. She had told Gimli stories of Narvi and the dwarves of the Dwarrowdelf, and their strong companionship with that Noldor king. Gimli wondered then if Thranduil might have actually touched this stone rail in those days of passing, and if Legolas had pondered the same thought.

But he dismissed the idea, preferring that his anger fester for a time. It was not until they had come to Lothlorien that they both came to realize they were more alike than different. There the both of them learned that the raw hurts that came from a misstep were forgivable if one would allow it. And then they had become friends.

As he stood on the bank of the hill, running his fingers over very similar stone, Gimli came to see how far they had come in some things. One thing however remained unspoken between them, and that was the telling of Legolas' shame over what he perceived as his father's misdeeds. For he now knew the pointed barb he had directed at the elf long days ago in Hollin was true. Legolas was ashamed of his father, for some reason yet unsaid. And in all their time together, over the many miles they had gone, never had Legolas mentioned Thranduil in any other terms than as his _king_ or _lord_. Never once had Legolas said 'my father'. That struck Gimli as wrong, especially knowing what he did of elven family bonds.

He dropped the stone to the ground then, choosing not to keep it. At the same time, he was not about to forget it or the mystery it invoked. What was it doing in Rohan?

He looked again at Legolas, spinning around in the sun-drenched fields, oblivious to the dwarf's contemplations. Gimli decided to delay speaking with the elf about their departure, just as he had decided not to mention the stone. It was good to see Legolas in a glad mood, and he had no desire to shadow that now. Tomorrow he would ask that they move forward. Tomorrow would be a new day.

TBC


	3. The Pouring Rain

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn_  
_Chapter Two: The Pouring Rain_

The dream faded with the realization that he was in pain. The dwarf's eyes drifted open. It was not an easy awakening. The world was warped and lopsided, and Gimli watched it loll past him from his place on the back of the horse.

Dizziness gripped him and he felt as if he might tumble from his high perch. His fingers curled tightly into Arod's mane, still wet from the river. He refused to let it loose now. It had been such a chore just to mount this animal. He would not lose his only chance of escape even if his head was pained and he felt wretchedly weak. He would will himself on. He must.

He silently cursed. That moment with the elf laughing, the horse playing, the golden-colored stone… it was just a memory…a dream -- and one so of a better day. Would it not be easier to go back, to live then rather than now? All had been right at that point of their journey and the past had been left untouched, unnoticed.

He had to concede it so. Gimli's grasp on the real world, even now, was precarious at best. Without meaning to, his head dropped into his chest, and he began to sag before he awkwardly caught his balance. _No!_ he admonished as he forced his body to sit aright. The animal naturally slowed. And then he cursed again. _Do not stop, horse!_ he thought. The teetering was enough to give the dwarf incentive to regain a small remnant of his composure. They could not stop, and yet he did not have the strength to bring himself upright for the full ride ahead. Even on his best days, riding the unsaddled beast was a challenge. But he also knew the horse was a smarter creature than the dwarf gave him credit of being, and so he spoke to Arod with an assuring voice. "I am merely resting. I will hold fast, Arod. Go on, please." His tone was much as he had heard Legolas use on occasions before. This animal was his only chance and he knew he must be respectful.

As best he could, he leaned forward and snugged his hands around the beast's throat to show indeed he was holding tight. He laid his head on the horse's rough mane. That seemed enough to appease the animal and prove that he was secure. The horse snorted and picked up his pace to match that of his prior, gentle stride. Those steps rocked him and Gimli closed his eyes again. From there, memories drifted into his mind and he could recall portions of the nightmare that had been his reality.

He could remember.

He could remember…

The lightning had flashed through the sky, and the deep stillness had made the air hard to breathe. The heavy rumble of the thunder seemed to cut through the stagnant heat. He remembered muttering his misgivings. All was dark. All was gloom. It was as if the world could feel the impending threat. Even Legolas had seemed troubled by it, turning on his heel, staring up at the sky. He had never seen the elf bothered by weather before.

"We will need to take cover," his friend had uttered. There was a wary edge to his voice. The clouds above swirled and peaked into dragging spikes of grey and black. And then the wind gusted. The storm fell. The wind made the rain a blinding force.

Gimli tried to get back to the camp, dropping the firewood he had been gathering. He needed his weapons and Legolas had followed in long strides, daring not to be separated. Gimli remembered that the wind blew dirt and leaves into his eyes. For brief moments he had been blind, disoriented. The rain pounded on them, each drop stinging in the violent storm. It came hard, like a flood. So much rain! He could not recall seeing such a storm before. Rivers ran between the ruts in the trees. And this was under canopy of the trees! Imagine it out upon the plains!

Legolas had cried for them to run to an overhang in the cliff. His voice was soft under the drumming sound of the rain. But the storm was violent and that distance seemed miles away. The sky let loose hail that pelted them like stones and the pounding rain soaked them through in seconds. Gimli continued on to their camp. He needed his weapons. Legolas too was without his quiver and knives, having eased his constant war-readiness as they had been made at their ease in this wood. Their camp had been unguarded. But the elf pulled on him, stopping him.

Rain poured in his eyes. He looked at his friend. Rain matted down the elf's hair. Fair skin gleamed with the watery slick. And there was terror in his friend's eyes. They were wide, fearful. He was pulling the dwarf in the opposite way and he was speaking. But the words were muffled. Gimli could not hear them. "Say again!" the dwarf shouted.

The elf leaned in and pulled at Gimli's arm, practically dragging him up the slope as he cried into the dwarf's ear, "The hills are turning to mud! The earth is moving!" And indeed, Gimli did feel it. The soil was sliding out from under them. It was pouring into the river!

And the pounding rain came down hard upon them.

And then true madness was summoned.

It formed as a blur in his mind, and the dwarf knew it made little more sense when he had lived it, but that was when they had been caught at unawares.

The demon had emerged!

Such a fright! Such betrayal! They had not realized it had been with them, looming, and on hindsight he knew they should have seen it coming. All the signs of it had been there. But they had trusted. Legolas had trusted. So sure had he been of this forest!

It tore them apart, screaming its horrible rage. Had he his axe, he might have staved off the attack but as it was, it cast Gimli into the mud. He had rolled, sliding away. Trees fell with him and he thought sure he would be crushed. But the raging river rode up and saved him. He was part of it but it was no kinder than the monster. The rapid water churned. He gulped, gasping and choking on the water that tried to bury him. There had been rocks. Pain. He shivered remembering the cold. Blood. Blackness.

He lurched awake, the assaulting visions still fresh in his mind. He did not lift his head. The recollection was yet alive though he was no longer adrift in dreams.

He could see the culminating moments and his worry meshed with his sickness. He envisioned Legolas hobbling forward to him, struggling to reach him. Blood poured from the elf's leg and black rain poured from the sky. The thunder had been deafening. And then Legolas was suddenly pulling him into the lighter currents, breathing hard but never weakening. His voice was urgent in the dwarf's ears. "I am here, Gimli! I am here!"

Strong hands tugged him and Gimli had looked up. There was a gash at Legolas' temple and his skin was pale. The rain flattened the blood and hair to the elf's cheeks causing crimson rivulets to roll down his friend's chin. There was a purple wheal beginning to appear at Legolas' jaw. "You are hurt," Gimli had managed to mutter.

"As are you," the elf had answered, yet Legolas had smiled. The dwarf saw relief in his friend's eyes. The disregard for his own wounds was not odd -- _So like an elf_, Gimli had thought -- and it seemed Legolas was more concerned for what the dwarf had suffered. _How fitting_, Gimli had thought_. I worry for him and he worries for me_.

They were still in waist-deep water when the dark shadow had loomed above them again. Gimli recalled Legolas' surprise. There was no time for the elf to even come into a fighting stance!

The blow had struck hard. It struck fast.

There was a horrible splash. A voice raged and then the elf was gone, ripped away!

And the rain poured down.

_Legolas!_

He HeH had floundered then, reaching, reaching blindly. A branch, thick and twisted, crashed in the water, dropping as if it was part of the storm, and Gimli grabbed for it, the only thing saving him from being pulled under as the water again began to drag him. Gale winds blew and he could feel the water sucking him into the churning rapids. He was drawn away.

_But where was Legolas? Where was he?_

The dwarf choked on a cry as he came awake again. He was greeted by the sight of golden grasses moving in a blur beneath him. Disorientation rolled over him like a wave. He furrowed his brow, lost for a moment, and then he recalled again his place. He tried then to determine if they had made any progress in the time since he had become senseless. Indeed, there was a difference, for the grass seemed shorter. All was drier here too, less torn apart, as if the flood and winds had not occurred in these lands.

He pushed himself up, but it was too much effort, too soon. His head spun and he felt hot and cold at once. He thought he might be sick. He dropped back against the horse's neck for balance, fingers tightly twining into the animal's rough mane. His head throbbed in a beat that seemed unnaturally fast. With a skewed sense of reason Gimli considered that his heart was thrumming out a tempo fitting a trapped hare.

Again he closed his eyes to let the illness pass, trying hard to keep his grip on the world. Slowly his heart resumed a more normal pace. The pain in his head dulled ever so slightly. More slowly still, he sat up again, finding that the rocking of the horse helped propel him in that direction.

From his upright position, he could see more of the world, and he was surprised to find that the day had gone. Had they been at it that long? Then again, his perspective was so off-kilter that Gimli realized he and the animal might have been walking a week; the dwarf's thoughts were that scattered.

But for having walked all day, or all week, their efforts seemed little to have paid off. Ahead of them, Gimli could see the fuzzy line of grey on the horizon ahead of them though his eyes would not focus enough to tell him what it might be. Gently, he turned his head trying to make out their direction, but the world was spinning and he knew not where to look to make it stop. Somewhere behind them was Legolas. He could put together no more than that.

And then he thought of his friend. He hated that he had left the elf behind, but it had been the only choice. Were he in any better condition, he would have ventured back, just as Legolas had fought for him. But he also knew even finding a way onto the back of Arod had been a trial. Thank the gods for the river. Now it was a matter of finding help. One could only imagine what might have come of the elf. Mirkwood, Lothlorien or Rohan, all were equally distant and he had left it to the horse to choose their path. He knew the animal would sense the easier direction and the way to others. Ultimately though, the dwarf was too concussed to carry out even this task on his own, It was taking everything of him just to remain conscious. He only hoped Legolas was in fairer condition than he, despite the injuries he knew existed.

One thing the dwarf did know was that Legolas had not exited as Gimli had. Had he, the horse would have gone directly to his master. Gimli used the animal's actions to gauge his own.

Again he leaned forward, noting as he did the slight flick in Arod's ears, as if the animal were sensing his illness and need again to rest. But the horse did not slow his pace this time, and Gimli did not have to speak. His eyes drifted shut.

Time does strange things in the whispering world of dreams. Gimli knew this just as he knew it is hard to know how much or how little of it passes until one relinquishes from the dreams and returns to consciousness. But consciousness was becoming less and less a choice for the dwarf and he was having difficulty maintaining it. He told himself rest would make him stronger, but in the periphery of his mind, he knew that his head wound was serious, and that sleep could cause him to drift into a state that he might not return from. However, his fatigue wore on him, and he could not fight off the full of its effects. He drifted into dream.

He was unsure then whether the voices he heard a lifetime, a minute, an hour later, were those of dream or reality. They made no sense to him at first, but then they coalesced into something that he could understand.

"It is a dwarf."

It was all he really knew, but it was enough for him to realize that they had met a settlement of some sort.

He must speak. He must let them know what had happened. He must get help.

"Legolas…" he whispered. It was all he could manage.

"What did he say?" a voice returned. It came from over his right shoulder, and Gimli was surprised to find he was lying supine upon the ground. What had come of the horse?

"Speak, dwarf," a rough voice beckoned, and Gimli winced at the abusive noise in his hurting head.

"Legolas…" he tried again. Even speaking hurt.

"'Green leaf'?" someone said with annoyance.

"He speaks Sindarin?" another said.

"What would a dwarf know to speak Sindarin?" the first voice said.

A new voice broke in, remanding the comments of the others. "Fools! He said 'Legolas.' It is a name…the prince of Lasgalen he speaks of."

"One of the Nine?"

"Is this dwarf one of that company then?"

"I think it is so," the last said.

Then the first voice was nearer, bending low as if to whisper in his ear. "Tell me what you will of Legolas, dwarf, and we will tend you."

That request was not so easily fulfilled. "Lost…" Gimli began, knowing it was not how he had intended to tell what had happened. But the world was fading from him, and he knew his time of consciousness was waning fast. He was having trouble understanding if the moment was dream or reality. His mouth felt thick, and somehow the words that he wished to say could not be found. He found it a victory just to be able to utter the most cryptic of thoughts. "Flood … the trees … could not reach him … "

It was all he could manage, and then his own hold on reality slipped away and he found himself muted by a lethargy that seemed far more pleasant than the fight to stay aware. It laid on him like a thick blanket.

Vacantly, he could hear more questions being asked, someone probing him, pushing him to awake. But he could not be bothered. It was too hard a task, and his body ached too much. He needed to rest. Somehow he felt like a traitor for giving in to his weariness, but it could not be helped. He was too weak.

He felt himself being lifted; the sensation of being borne was quite clear to him, and it seemed then that he floated away on a cloud. He was airborne, light as the breeze, and he minded no more that he was beyond himself. He did not notice that his wounds were bathed or that he was draped in clean blankets. He did not notice that his boots were removed, or that he was stripped of his filthy clothes. He did not realize that he was made to drink a draught in the attempt to help him or that the healers stood at his vigil muttering worriedly about his plight. And he did not know that steely eyes of icy blue stared at him, willing him to awake so that he might tell more of what had happened to Thranduil's son.

He knew none of this, only that he floated back into a void where snippets of what had occurred these last many days meandered into his dreams. It was all he knew for a very long while as time continued to move on without him, taking up space for which he could not account.

TBC


	4. Stayed Tears

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn_  
_Chapter Three: Stayed Tears_

_Drip drip drip._

The elf's eyes fixed on the droplets as they fell from the long blade of grass with just the simple touch of a digit to the strand. The sun sparkled on the watery crystals, and he enjoyed watching as each bead of morning dew rolled off the single stem of green, riding over the silver down that lined the leaf's edge. He marveled at the exacting pleasure found in knowing the droplet fell only to part the blade of grass and become a greater part of this good earth. Thousands upon thousands of slender stems, identical to just this one, surrounded him as he sat in the grasses. A warm wind drifted with a stirring breeze and the fronds caressed him with their delightful shower of dewy kisses, waking him to a new day. His eyes lighted upon those stems nearest him, a smile pressing his lips as he contemplated how beautiful and simple these gifts of the Valar were. The easy pleasure to be found in just a drop of liquid was a lovely thing to behold, and he wondered as he studied his surroundings further if he was blessed enough to truly be awake to this. The moment seemed too much like those found in reverie, and it had been a long time since he had thought he could be as happy as this in his waking thoughts.

It had been a very long time indeed. All wariness and apprehension seemed gone from the lands. All was free. He was free. It felt good to find the earth claiming such beauty as that contained in the drop of water. Nothing pulled or maligned the vast wonders of it. Now the sky was open and it breathed untainted air upon all these lands. The drop fell.

Air. Sun. Earth. Water. The wind blew again. The grass seemed to dance all around him. The gentle flicker of their light shower sprayed him…like a misty rain…like….

The smile left his lips without his meaning it to. A horrible ache filled his chest with a sudden yearning that filled him.

Drops of water…A spray carried by an ocean breeze…

The sun still shone, but it was suddenly harsh and cruel. The heat of it burned his skin. He was removed from his joy. He ducked his head, feeling his eyes sting with the light of it. Unbidden tears hung in his eyes. More droplets fell upon him, as if the grass were now inflicting it upon him. It was a weapon. The drops were a shock upon his skin. He gasped. The air rattled in his chest. The chill of those myriad drops…

It was the sea. Without ever meaning to, his mind had wandered a path of association, leading to this ever-present yearning. The happy thoughts that had played in his mind were gone. His felt the dread weight of his want take him and despairing pain gripped him. He heard the call.

He should have guarded himself against it. By now he must well know how the desire came upon him when he least wanted it. The surprise of this attack should not have been allowed. But then, for so long on this journey he had managed to keep his yearning at a distance. Still, the call of the sea would not remain subtle. In his mind it became loud and unyielding, His heart suddenly ached fiercely for it. It was like his chest was being squeezed and torn apart. He wondered now if he could fight it off as he had hoped to. He had had such a vision…he had thought he knew the means to defeat it.

The rational part of him said that a man's lifetime was a short span. That is what he had promised -- that he would stay so long as Aragorn lived. But at this moment he realized each day of that life would be a torment. How could he think he might find relief in task? To start anew? The goal of this personal quest -- the reason he and Gimli truly traveled, though the dwarf was not aware -- had been to find a place where he might build himself a new home. Nobly he had thought to make it a colony for the elves seeking to stay yet in this world. Lothlorien and Imladris seemed to fade and the Greenwood was wrought with too many bad memories. A new home had seemed the right decision. Now that goal seemed frivolous. How could he fulfill such a thing when he in turn wished to go? He was a fool. He had no true quest. It would be so much easier if he just chose the Straight Path and made done with it all.

And as he thought this, his eyes never left the droplet of water.

A grumbling sigh interrupted his contemplations. He paused, waiting for the words to come. On any given day he could laugh at the contrasts between he and his companion. But on this day, at this moment, he thought he might go mad to hear anything that would tug his heart further.

"So Elf, do you think we might journey to our given destination someday soon?"

The sarcasm was not lost on him. But he cared not. He could feel only pain in his chest where his heart lay, and he pondered a greater meaning within the question. _Do you think you might journey on…?_

Perhaps…

Perhaps he should. What was there here in Middle-earth to keep him? His love for a king not his to follow? His father would say that was foolishness. Yet certainly not for the sake of his own king would he stay, unless commanded, and he was not eager to see if he was to be thus ordered for the only truth was that his affection for his friends kept him in these lands.

But would they not wish to see him happy? If they knew just how painful his sea-longing truly was, would they not choose better for him? They would. They would, and that gave him his answer though he was hesitant to accept it. Perhaps it _was_ time.

Absently Legolas responded, his eyes still fixed upon the droplet. "Peace, Gimli. Give me time." And indeed that is what he needed, if only his heart would allow it.

"Time?" the dwarf answered with a hint of humor in his gruff voice. "You have dallied for days now. How much more time do you need?"

_An eternity_, Legolas thought, knowing he had lost what had always had been his before the sea's call had found him. "Fangorn will remain where it has been whether we step across its threshold on this day or the next."Had he said that? Yes, those had been his words.

"Dreamy elf! It is just on the other side of that rise! Do not act as if it is miles off in the seeking!"

Legolas closed his eyes, wincing. He hoped his friend would not notice. Harsh words would not help him. At the same time, he was not eager to share another one of these moments with the dwarf. His friend had already seen him in a state of undoing too many times already. The agony was great. "Please, Gimli. It has been long since I have had the serenity to tarry at my choosing."

"Lag on your own time then. I appreciate the slow pace, truly I do, but at this rate you will make a liar out of me. I cannot keep my end of the promise to visit Fangorn Forest if I die of old age before we ever reach it. We will never arrive if you are going to drag it out by serenading every buttercup along our path!"

Legolas tried to find a retort. He tried to smile. He tried to bring his eyes up to where the dwarf could see them. But he was finding it nearly impossible to do any of these. When he opened his eyes, the droplets upon the leaves were there before him, mesmerizing him and he was lost again. Why was he here?

But the dwarf, still at his back and not seeing his weary gaze traveling from blade to blade must have thought this a game. He huffed a reply. "You do this on purpose. I know you do! You know full well of my hesitancy to enter this wood; yet you drag on my trepidations for your own amusement!"

He could give no reply, so fixed was his attention on the dewy drops sparkling before him. He put out his hand to catch one as it slid across the single blade in his focused sight. If only he could stop the drop from falling… That seemed to be his only answer. If he could hold back the water he might draw the yearning away. He knew the task was impossible, yet at the moment his desperation seemed far greater. Putting a light finger to the frond, he leveled the course of the beading globe, forcing the droplet to remain within the bowl of the leaf. Yet the action was not enough. Beyond this single blade was another dewy frond, and as he reached to it to right the bend of the leaf also, the blade of the long grass he had been holding fell forward, and the droplet fell like a spilled tear. He could not stop it. He watched it plummet into the moist sea of the earth.

"Not that I find pleasure in making that our course, but it has been all you have talked of for months now."

The elf released a shaky breath, unable to keep the near sob contained. His despair was an agony beyond anything he had endured in his life, be that battles or sparring the torments put upon him by his king. It was a pain that he knew but one cure for. The sea was calling him. He must answer it.

"Elf?"

The gruff sound of his friend's voice was softened by sudden concern. He could hear it, but he could not respond. His eyes remained fixed, but he could see now the shape of his hand as it was drawn out to cup the drops of water, and he watched as the small rivulets trailed over the ridges there, trickling between his fingers. It was like watching the path of a river.

A strong hand gripped his wrist, suddenly pulling his fingers away from the trickling water.

"Legolas, answer me!"

"It flows," the elf said, noting the path the small drops took despite the other hand closing over his. "It slides away. Here at its source, it seems hardly a threat."

"Elf, you are making no sense," Gimli stated, shaking him slightly. "Look at me!"

The taunt of the sea was bewitching, and though he yearned to look away, he couldn't keep his eyes from the sparkling droplets. "The flow cannot be stayed. How do I keep from that course?" he asked, not really knowing if he had voiced the question aloud.

But apparently the query had been spoken. "More importantly, elf, how do I keep you from asking such impossibly inane questions? Legolas!" A hand now on either shoulder shook him. "Look at me," Gimli demanded, and somehow the elf found the power to do so. "You are doing it again."

The dwarf's face was stern though his voice belied fear and concern. "You must try to keep this from re-occurring. It grows too frequent."

"I have not the answer," Legolas whispered.

Sadness sparked in the dwarf's eyes. Legolas could see the hurt in his friend. But then a small smile came to Gimli's face. "Must you make it so hard?" And then as if knowing already his own reply, the dwarf shook his head and sighed, "Of course you must. You are an elf! Very well then, hear me. Nay, do not look away." Legolas had not even realized that he was starting to do so. With more concentration, he fixed his gaze on the dwarf. There was something grounding in this.

"The answer is this, my friend," Gimli continued. He fixed a hard stare upon the elf with a finality that made it impossible to look elsewhere. "You need to think like a dwarf."

And despite himself, Legolas' mouth curled into a pained smile. The sober way in which the dwarf had approached the topic had made Legolas believe there was a solemn answer. He had not expected such a silly reply. And then he sighed. It had had an effect. The battle waned now that the dwarf had his attention. Adding his part to their discourse he weakly replied, "I suppose it should be as such. Inane questions should be paired with inane answers."

"You asked. I answered. But I do not think my solution is so very wrong," the dwarf shrugged.

"Perhaps it would not be if I understood what it was you were saying," Legolas countered, finding the horrible taunt lifting the more he involved himself in this casual banter.

As if knowing he was having a positive effect, Gimli snorted out a mocking reply. "Now you may know what it is like for me to converse with _you_." But his eyes grew serious an instant later. "Legolas, I know the appearance of the sea-longing when it claims you. And though I do not always speak of it, it does so often. True?"

Legolas nodded. Of course it was true. And of course Gimli knew of the affliction. He had been there from its start. Another spray of droplets fell upon him, and Legolas was directed to look again at the water droplets. His thoughts returned to those darker notions. "Even a quiet river eventually leads to the vastness of the great sea. I cannot stem its flow, Gimli."

"Pah! See there! You are thinking like an elf again," the dwarf scoffed.

Legolas had to laugh. "I cannot undo that."

Gimli gave him an assessing look then. His eyes narrowed as if he were considering the merits of the elf sitting before him, and then he shook his head. "Nay, not alone can you. But fortunately, you have a dwarf in your company to help you." He shifted then, looking off into the distance. "You speak of rivers flowing, Legolas, and your meaning is not lost on me. I know what you speak of is your heart. And I would tell you, if this is where you must go, then you must! But I will also tell you that Dwarves do not think of things in delicate terms. Our hearts are not water. They are stone. They are wood. They are earth."

"And still you reply inanely," Legolas said, trying to remain positive and not despair.

"Hear me out. We dwarves are made of firmer stuff than you give us credit for. We think to construct and barricade and shore. You say the course of a river cannot be halted and I will tell you that it can."

He gazed again at the elf. "You must build up walls and dam it."

And with a burst of laughter that could not be contained, Legolas found the sound of it spilling from him. "Dam it?" he questioned. Such an answer seemed incredibly funny to him. "How do I dam my heart?"

He laughed openly, mirth claiming him for the moment. His eyes watered with tears both of sorrow and amusement and he managed to say, "I believe you have been too long in my company, Gimli. You have learned to speak in metaphors. I should be proud."

The dwarf looked somewhat embarrassed, but then he appeared to regain himself and said, "Of course you cannot _really _build walls around your heart! That would be silly, for there is nothing real to stave off. But you can fortify what you have already built by strengthening your heart, Legolas."

The elf blinked as he took in the thought. The laughter ceased. Strengthen his heart?

What did that mean?

But he knew, truly he did, for was that not his purpose in this journey? Had he not hoped that upon entering Fangorn he might find a need for his services? Wood elves bring with them life and vitality. He could give that to a blighted place. He could help restore what had been lost. In his journeys he had found Ithilien to be in desperate need. In fact, it weighed on his mind that there might be a way to help those lands. Easily he could have made that his task -- if only it were not so near the sea. Strengthening his heart was what he meant to do, and he knew he must be free of the reminders the sea put upon him. Ithilien, though fulfilling his need of service was also dangerous for the suffering elf. But Fangorn gave him promise.

They had tarried too long. He realized that now. He had lost the point of his quest by taking this restful pace to celebrate the world's freedom from terror. It was time to resume his journey. He needed to get back on task or he might ever be plagued by attacks such as this one. Strengthen his heart…? He would do so only by remaining diligent and alert.

Realizing how far he had fallen, Legolas recovered himself enough to find his shaky legs and to try to stand. The dwarf gave him his hand and the elf pulled himself aright. He had to stay sure, and he knew the dwarf was a part of his cure. He must fortify his heart…indeed, how true those words were. And with Gimli, he just might manage to dam off the current that would have otherwise carried him to the sea.

He paused and took a deep breath. He was not fully recovered, but he knew he could go on now as planned. The sea-longing sapped his strengths, but so long as his mind stayed on the world before him, he might remain well. "Are you not ready to go then?" he asked, looking pointedly at the dwarf's bedroll and other uncollected possessions. The shift in his mood was abrupt, but it served to take the focus elsewhere.

"I am ready. I am ready," the dwarf said hurriedly, gathering up his goods.

Legolas smiled slyly, still feeling weak but not willing to show it. He would rather appear flip and easily moved than to let the melancholy overshadow their travels. "How can you beleaguer me to part when you are not prepared yourself, Dwarf! You say it would please you to journey on. Therefore, let it be!"

"It does not please me in the least, but at least it will be done," the dwarf grumbled.

Legolas just laughed, feeling more fully himself with the merry sound. Here was what would heal him. So long as journeys could be made and new adventures could be found, Legolas thought he could survive the torment of the sea. No, it was not yet time to part this world. "Come then, my eager companion," the elf said and then he whistled for Arod.

The fair stallion came at his call much like a dog to his master. The animal's joy for Legolas' attentions could not be denied. Arod approached gently, butting his head into the elf's chest when he was near enough. Legolas graced the white horse with a gentle murmur in his flowing Sindarin. "Mae govannen, Arod. Garo le revia mae?" Then switching to the common tongue for the sake of his companion, the elf said, "And are you as keen now to enter yonder forest as my friend, Gimli, appears to be?"

The horse grunted as if he conspired with the elf. Gimli bristled. "I already know you have the horse working against me. No need to give him additional cause to mock."

"Mock?" Legolas said with a baffled expression, an eyebrow cocked, and it seemed Arod donned a similar one. Legolas almost laughed at the amusing ways of the horse as he brushed his hand over the long snout. "Why, Arod is quite fond of you. _Really_." To this there came a snort from the horse, as if he were contradicting the outlandish notion.

Leaping in one swift moment onto the horse's back then, the elf put out a hand to help the dwarf up. It was time to go forward. Legolas would not waste any more of himself being idly restive. There was yet time before he would part this world, and if he was to leave, it would be because his task was done. His love for the land would never be denied, nor would his love for his friends, but it was his need to help that he gauged his own heart upon. He would part only when the other world appeared the better for his heart. And that was not now. So long as he could dam off the river that led him there.

TBC


	5. Just Cause

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Four: Just Cause_

Gimli was beginning to grow fearful about how close these episodes were becoming. He had barely noticed this one at first, so sudden was its occurrence. One moment he had seen Legolas acting so typically an elf, smiling in the sun, singing his joy for the golden morning; in the next the dwarf faced a lost soul trapped in dire thoughts of hopeless yearning.

The sea-longing was getting worse. That was a troublesome thought, especially considering each day brought them further from the sea. It seemed the elf could ascribe its presence in most anything. So how were they to fight that?

The dwarf smiled despite his dark mood. Yes, he had thought '_they_'. It was no small thing that he thought this was his battle as much as Legolas'. As a warrior, he took it on as such, strategizing how they might fight it. Ultimately Gimli had deduced that he had to attack it with any weapons he could find. In this case it had been words. Next time it might be cuff upside the head; the dwarf was not adverse to offering that kind of defensive measure if need called for it. He smiled at the thought of using that tact, but his grin departed as he considered just how long it might be before even that did not work.

The fact was the elf had to wish to remain in order for this to have effect. The dwarf had never dared ask if this was the case for fear that it would bring on a worsening melancholy. Gimli had learned to go by clues. Some days the elf spoke of a distant future on Middle-earth and his part in molding it; at those times the dwarf felt assured Legolas would stay. On other days there was only discussion of the sea and how his friend felt the urge to go onto Elven Home, and of course that made the dwarf's heart dip in despair. With a sigh, Gimli supposed he must force Legolas to state his intent. If Legolas was to stay the dwarf felt a real plan needed to be devised. After all, the dwarf could not stay with the elf evermore. As a side note, Gimli mentally tasked himself to find someone in Mirkwood capable of taking this duty when he was not about.

Still, his mind went back to this most recent bout. His comments had been said for effect, and not so much for truth. Fortunately Legolas had been too torn by his feelings to argue the logic. Thus his strategy had worked. Gimli was not so bold to_ really_ believe one could fortify their heart as he had suggested. He was proof that one could not. After all, had he not fallen so deeply and unequivocally in love with the Lady Galadriel when he had thought certain his heart was closed to anything beyond kind affections? Unconsciously, his hand went to the small pouch he kept at his belt and the treasured threads of her hair that were stored there. Gimli knew now that one could never refrain what the heart guided. And thus, his words really had been pointless.

Yet it had worked. Legolas had come back to himself, and that was all Gimli had been hoping to reach. He knew he had effect over the elf, and so long as they remained companions, in this small way, he _could_ help.

Still, he had to face the facts at hand. Legolas would be leaving. That was an inevitability the dwarf wished not to face, but it was apparent that the sea-longing was not being kind. With resignation, Gimli realized it could not be easy to have one's heart shorn. Therefore he knew he must prepare himself for the words that were to come. Legolas would leave. Still, that did not keep him from silently praying that the Valar would spare the elf the agony of this decision for a time more.

However, for now, Legolas was himself again and Gimli supposed he should find the good in that.

The dwarf glanced around the elf's body from the position he had at the back of the horse. Fangorn Forest was not quite so close as Gimli would have made it to be, though the gray form of it looming ahead at the eastern foot of the mountain could be seen to come from many miles away. They still had a good ride before them. That was fine by the dwarf. He might have said otherwise, but he truly was not eager to do anything quickly, and certainly he was not thrilled about the idea of entering that wood. He could recall well enough the menacing groans of lumbering timbers from beneath that leafy canopy. That was before they had even come to realize just how alive the wood was. And then later, the demonstration given by the Huorns outside of Helm's Deep did little to take his fears away. Those trees had shown just how mighty they could be, and had he not cried out, or Gandalf ordered Legolas to stop, he and the elf may have come to know first hand what those creatures could do.

Of course, any dwarf with the common sense of a rock could see the wood was perilous.

There was something of a brooding mood that darkened the forest and the idea of _trees that moved _was unnerving. But that was no deterrent for Legolas. There was good that could be found in all living things, or so a certain elf always seemed to say. Trite words. Still Gimli perceived that Legolas was determined to find redeeming qualities in Fangorn. In fact, he talked of nothing but his certainty of the woods fairness whenever it was mentioned. The elf was dogged in his pursuits, that was sure. Gimli only hoped that Treebeard's messages to those now guarding the forest in his absence had preceded them and they could walk in peace. He'd hate to have the elf proven wrong. At least in this case.

Without meaning to, Gimli shifted nervously behind Legolas, The elf must have sensed his trepidation, for without turning he said, "You would favor dismissal if you could honorably have it, would you not?"

Gimli was not certain what to say. He would indeed prefer to be released from this task, but he and Legolas had made an agreement, and the elf had fulfilled his part of it by going to Aglarond. He would carry on. Still he could not help muttering his misgivings. "I feel as if we step into danger." It was not truly an answer but he knew Legolas would understand him.

"I feel it too," the elf said. Such an admission was surprising and Gimli blinked at the elf's truthful confession. "Thus I would not hold you to this journey, Gimli. I know you go with hesitation. If it frightens you, I would not wish you to go. Remain without and roam free with Arod if you so choose. I will venture on alone."

Gimli looked at the back of the elf's head and frowned. What Legolas suggested was a ridiculous idea and the dwarf wondered for a moment if his friend was relapsing again into his mournful state. Perhaps it was a blunt blow to the head might be in order after all. "Are you daft?" he grumbled. "I need only think of all the trouble you might get yourself into to know I would sorely be missed! Besides, who spoke anything of fear? I said no such words though I suspect through your suggestion alone that you might be feeling such a thing. For me, I only wish to know what we face. Should my axe be at the ready, I wonder?"

"We are not orcs. We will not face the pummeling those wretched creatures did at Helms Deep," Legolas countered.

"Do the trees know that?" Gimli asked half seriously, gazing into the wood.

Legolas seemed to be contemplating that thought but the dwarf thought perhaps he might be smiling. He finally said, "They will know I am an elf. That should be all that is required to make our journey favorable. You will come then?"

"I never said I would not. I just do not like how this wood makes me feel."

"Perhaps if you think of it as another adventure…?"

"An adventure is one thing, danger is another," Gimli answered with hesitation.

"I thought you liked danger." There was a teasing sound in the elf's voice, and Gimli saw the elf was egging him on for a game. The dwarf felt more than able to take the elf on in verbal joust.

He smiled as he brusquely answered, "So I do. I only wish it were not a constant in my journeying with you."

The dwarf could hear the smile in Legolas' answer. "I do not make the trouble, Gimli. It seems to follow you."

Follow me?" the dwarf snorted. "May I remind you of the time when you and I ventured into Ithilien to get away from the city? You nearly created a landslide on the passes leading into those hills."

"I was only singing," Legolas protested.

"I warned you not to let your voice carry too far."

"I saw no point in keeping my song to a whisper. It was for your sake that I sang."

"Mine? I had no worries."

"No? You kept saying, ''This journey does not bode well. This journey does not bode well…''", the elf said, doing a crude imitation of Gimli's deep voice.

"Obviously it did not!" Gimli replied brusquely. "Any dwarf could have told you that those walls were weak."

"And any elf could have told you that much song will be needed to heal that land. I was trying to offer what I could to begin the process."

"By making a sacrifice of me? I was nearly crushed!"

"A crude method, I agree, but I'm told that some cultures use that method regularly."

"Consult me first the next time you adopt a new religious offering."

The elf clucked his tongue. "I cannot be put to blame because the land needed tending."

"Nay, but you can take responsibility for ignoring my advice."

"How was I to know my song could cause a landslide?"

"Because I told you so," Gimli drawled out.

"Nonsense. You knew as much about the lands as I did, Gimli. You did not know the cliffs could not sustain the noise."

But Gimli knew he need not go on. The argument had been won with very little effort on his part. Still he smiled. He enjoyed having the last word in these matters. "It is obvious you think only with your heart and use nothing of your head. That is why trouble follows _you_."

"And where was your head when we entered the Glimmering Caves?" Legolas returned and Gimli winced knowing to what the elf referred. "It seems to me that _you_ were the one moved by your environment, not _I_. Or am I mistaken? Was that not you who nearly fell into a pit within the first thirty feet of the cave. You would have done so too had I not looped my fingers into your belt at the last instant. I further recall that it was _I_ who warned _you_ to keep your eyes before you and not to the ceilings."

The elf would bring up that _one _instance. With chagrin though, Gimli had to concede the point. Legolas would win on this matter. Still he would never openly admit it and thus argued, "In caves, there is as much danger that can come from the ceiling as the floor."

"All the more reason, in my mind, to journey in a forest."

"I believe in your realm there are spiders that drop from the ceiling of the trees."

"And if one uses their heart, they will sense the presence of those spiders and be ready for their trespass. The danger is nil. I do not know of you, but I cannot _sense_ a hole in the path of a cave. Then again, I have never sought to endear myself to open voids."

Gimli thought about saying something about endearing himself to the void between Legolas' ears, but decided it was too harsh a comment given the heat of their discussion. This was mild repartee at best, nothing like some of the sparring matches they had had on days when Legolas was more at his own. The dwarf would save the comment for a time when the elf was better prepared to banter.

Instead he looked up. The forest was suddenly much nearer. He shook his head. How had that happened? Barely did it seem that a minute had passed; yet looking to the sun he knew a greater amount of time had gone by then that. Bah! This is what it was to travel with an elf and of late it seemed Gimli was always losing his sense of time when he was around his friend. He glanced at Fangorn again, feeling resistant to what lay ahead. It seemed like an oppressive wall was before them, fending them away from the green carpet that climbed into the foothills. Abruptly changing the subject, Gimli said, "This reminds me of some of the darker parts of your lands, Legolas."

The elf sat a little taller. It was a long moment before he commented. "It is similar. Aye, I can see how you might think that. But it is different also. I feel that the voice of song is needed here where that is a constant in Mirkwood. I do not doubt Treebeard has managed well, but there is a disquiet in this wood, and darkness has hung heavy here for a very long while. I cannot say what tainted it, or how much it has spread, but I do know that what was done could be undone if enough time were given for the cure to take."

"We will not be in these woods long enough for any cure to take, Legolas," Gimli said warily, wondering what the elf intended for this journey. "It might be prudent if you were to be wary of what is here."

"You seem to have that area covered," Legolas replied and Gimli had to laugh. "I do not fear these woods, dwarf. In fact, I feel it can be managed. There is good here, as much as there is sorrow. And I think there are elves who might wish to do what they can to work that anguish away."

"You cannot be speaking for yourself?" Gimli asked but then he realized too late that he had stepped where he had not meant to do so. He could see where this conversation would lead, and he was not sure he was prepared for it just yet. Would Legolas tell him his intentions if he were asked so directly? It was indeed time to know. He no longer had his eyes fixed on the trees.

And he could see that the elf gently smiled, even if he could only make out the cheekbone of that angular face. "Perhaps I do."

Was that not like an elf? Half an answer. That is what he gave. And yet, what he said was…encouraging. "But I thought --," but then Gimli shook his head to change his tone. He really did need to consider this, for it was news! Reading into the elf's meaning he could see now that Legolas did have a cause for his heart! It gladdened Gimli tremendously to hear it, and he should like to know more. Still he was wary of saying too much lest he cause another turn into that dreaded longing. Stumbling over his words, he dumbly blurted out, "The sea … it seemed to claim you. I had thought sure that you had chosen . . . "

"I have chosen nothing, Gimli. As yet, I am merely exploring the opportunities laid yet in Middle-earth. I would rather I did not leave just yet."

Gimli almost whooped his joy with those words. Yes, there was promise here. But then he remembered himself. The elf would surely mock him were he to know how deep the dwarf's feelings went. Guarding himself, his eyes turned to the path ahead and he found himself suddenly growing apprehensive of it, as if he was staring at a different kind of doom. "But to do so by rebuilding Fangorn…?" he asked.

"…Or Ithilien. I can see much that would benefit a loving heart."

Gimli did not want to discourage his friend, but the mood in either of those woods was grim. It was permeating and it would take much to make them happier places. What Legolas was suggesting was tantamount to saying he would fight his depression by immersing himself in despair instead. How would that be a help? "But there is so much to do!"

"And a lessening of the years in which to do them. I very much agree! It will not be many more centuries before the dominance of Man is felt even at the steps of _this_ forest. With shadow gone, Gondor and Rohan will grow, and mankind will spread and begin to claim more and more of the lands. That is what Men are destined to do. And if it is to be, then these lands and the forests must be made safe to meet them. Those coming must understand what they take and not be forced to battle and destroy what they cannot sense as the good. Great work needs to be done now if these woods are to be revealed for all that they originally held. And I would hate to leave them as they are now -- marred. Crippled. I cannot part without trying to see these places returned to their former magnificence."

"But you cannot take this on alone. It is too much for one elf," Gimli said, shaking his head.

"I have hopes I will not be alone. I pray that others of my kind will find the same desires in their hearts, and will join me in giving this gift to Man," Legolas said as his eyes gazed over the trees.

Gimli was moved. It was selfless of the elf to do so much. But then had Legolas not always acted selflessly? "You strive for a noble cause," Gimli said, his voice humble and low.

"Is your cause not equally as good?" Legolas asked, looking back.

Gimli had to think about that for a moment. "You mean Aglarond?" he asked, perplexed.

"You had told me you only wished to improve on what was there. Is that not a betterment done for those that follow?"

"I suppose," Gimli replied. "But for me it is done so as a means to pass it on to the heirs of my kind, not necessarily Man." He felt rather ashamed he could not admit to a better reason.

"Surely though, you and your kind recognize the dominance of mankind in these coming times?" Legolas asked as if giving him better cause.

But Gimli would not allow himself to be bested just yet. In some things dwarves were superior, and if Legolas thought to compare his people's departure to the plight of the dwarves, he would be proven wrong. "By that I believe you are indicating the waning of my people? If so, you err. I would point out that the Khazâd have struggled under shadow as well as Man. With the lifting of darkness, I think we may again see the growth of my kind in these better years."

"I will hope it is so," Legolas quietly said. Gimli was moved. He knew Legolas had developed a kindly way of thinking about the dwarven race, but he had no idea the elf cared about their continuation and prosperity.

But the conversation ended there. Legolas stopped. They had reached the wall of the great wood. It was shadowy and eerie at the threshold, and as much as he would have liked not to feel it, a wave of unease passed over Gimli again as they stood looking inward to the dark forest.

And then, as if startled, Legolas spun about in his seat and he surveyed the landscape at their rear. His eyes narrowed as he looked over the plains now due east of them, and then he gazed up at the sky.

"What is it?" Gimli asked, sensing danger in the elf's stiffened pose.

Legolas seemed to relax slightly, his brow relaxing the deep furrow that had incised itself there. He glanced at Gimli, then turned his eyes to the forest ahead. At last he spoke. "There is trouble in the southern reaches of Mirkwood. The good king, I think, is causing a skirmish."

Gimli looked behind, seeing nothing but a thin line of grey on the distant horizon. It was too far for his eyes to see, and too far he suspected for Legolas to see either, but he knew that Dol Guldur lay in that direction. It must be some fifty leagues away. "How do you know?" Gimli asked.

"Lord Celeborn told me of the battles King Thranduil had been waging and what had come of the southernmost lands. It belongs to Lothlorien now but if I am any judge, Thranduil will not relinquish it without attempting to relieve it of at least some of the Necromancer's evil. He would be finishing his task now if I am any judge, and indeed the crows are flying," Legolas replied, not looking in that direction, but instead dismounting as if to lead Arod into the forest before them.

"You can hear them?" Gimli asked, looking again over his shoulder to see if he might find the clue Legolas had.

"They fly without direction, and some come this way. Their voices cry out of death and fear. My king is taking the darkness of the forest to task," Legolas said as he tightened one of the packs that had come loose in their travel.

Gimli watched the elf from his high perch. He had not bothered to dismount. Legolas appeared calm and unmoved by this odd missive and Gimli wondered at it. "Perhaps we should go and offer our aid?" Gimli suggested.

But Legolas ignored him, only working the knots on the packs. "With the slow speed we have traveled in departing Isengard, I think if we spend a week here, then head north to Lothlorien, we might meet with the Lord and Lady's party."

"Yes, but mayhap we might find better use for our services in southern Mirkwood," Gimli replied.

"That would be prudent were it our destination, but it is not."

"It will be eventually."

"You still have the option of remaining on the plains as I had offered, Master Dwarf. If you are to attend this forest with me though, please let its mood trouble you no further."

The dwarf clenched his jaw in frustration. He felt certain his suggestion was being disregarded. More so the elf's implication that Gimli's suggestion stemmed from fear made the warrior wish to pommel something. But then he wondered if this was just another game on the elf's part. If it was, he did not see the humor.

Instead he jumped down from the horse and came to stand before the elf. Shoving Legolas' hip to spin the elf around so that he might face him, Gimli countered, "Hear me! I am not trying to get out of this task and I would ask you to stop inferring that I am! I said I would travel with you, no matter the peril! But you_, friend-elf_, said you would wish to see the forests of Middle-earth restored before parting these shores! I think I may be correct in saying that Mirkwood appears much in need of just that! Why do we not go to your father's aid?"

There was a chilly shift in the elf's demeanor and Gimli found himself taking a backward step. The steely glint in his friend's eyes reminded the dwarf of that time in Hollin when he had said too much. "King Thranduil will have the matter in hand," Legolas stated crisply.

But then the elf's eyes came to soften almost immediately and the dark look passed. Rounding to the front of the horse Legolas said in a tone that was almost mournful, "We need not bother. Our presence is not wanted."

And with that, the elf led Arod into the forest, leaving Gimli to stand alone, caught between the bright sunlight and deep shadow. Perplexed, the dwarf knew to follow, but he could not help but wonder at his friend's odd way. Why would Legolas not offer aid to his own people? Or Celeborn's people, if that was the case? He was needed in Mirkwood, Gimli had no doubt of that.

Then again, the dwarf was reminded of Legolas words. The sign was there again. His friend never named King Thranduil in any terms except those used in court. None. And with that Gimli wondered if an elf could feel no love for his own kin? To Gimli that seemed terribly out of place, especially knowing what he did know of the Eldar. The bond of family was supposed to be deep among that kind. Yet Legolas appeared to show no love for his father whatsoever.

Gimli stood there for a moment more, watching as the elf and horse disappeared into the folds of the dark. Here was despair of its own making and he wondered how deep that wound truly went. Legolas was searching for a place where he could make great repairs, yet the dwarf thought his friend could spend the rest of his eternity just trying to mend the rift between himself and his kin? Did Legolas really need to seek out troubled lands to give himself purpose? It seemed from outward appearance that trouble already existed where the elf lived.

And then in the distance, he could hear a scattered sound. It was too faint to make out clearly at first, but as he looked back, he could see the distant shape of a dark mass growing in the sky. It reminded him of how the crebain had appeared to them when the Fellowship had come to Hollin. The dwarf felt his remembered apprehensions with the sight as Legolas' words ran through his mind. _My king is taking the darkness of the forest to task_, the elf had said. Gimli could hear the raucous cries of the birds now as they approached. He shivered. _Death death death_ they seemed to say.

The dwarf turned back to the wood and he hesitated no more. He drew in his breath as he crossed into the forest, but he quickly let it out. He would not keep the unmoving air as his. It should pass. He was just a traveler in this gloom. He would not take the harm to his own heart. _Best leave that to others_, he thought.

That was too grim. The dwarf chastised himself for his dark moodiness. It was not for Gimli to question his friend's purpose. Legolas had a cause. That was all he should focus on. Though it was not clear what differentiated one source of need from another, it was obvious the elf knew his own heart, and one could never truly refrain what the heart guided. All Gimli could say with any certainty was that if Legolas wished him there, the dwarf would be a companion. And so he hastened to follow in the footstep the elf had made clear to him. It was time to enter the wood and to be kin to his friend where the elf had no one else.

TBC


	6. On the Trail of Mysteries

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Five: On the Trail of Mysteries_

Legolas wondered at the heavy mood that pelted him upon entering the forest. The air was stifling, unmoving, but not in a way that contained the burden of heat; it was more like something one felt when found doing something wrong.

He sensed a hundred sets of eyes upon them. This, Legolas realized, is what he had felt the first time they had walked into Fangorn Forest. It was eerie, for he could not see them looking at him, yet he knew the eyes were there. Gooseflesh pricked his arms and neck. He knew the cause. The trees were alive here, far more so than in any other forest realm he had ventured.

The air grew oppressive in its stillness as he continued his walk. Within a minute, the heavy sound of wooden groans, like the deep bellow of myriad bass instruments could be heard all around them. His eyes went wide, trying to find the source, but the voices were many. They were repeated and echoed on into the distance of the wood, as if a warning were being cried.

There was a subtle shift in the trees closest to them then, and it seemed as if the wood was leaning in. Though they did not encroach upon his path, he felt for a moment as if they might try to stop him.

This was not how he imagined their entrance might be met. Now that the blight of the Dark Lord was gone, he had hoped that the deep moodiness that had filled the Ent forest on his earlier visit might be lifted. It was not. This forest held its emotion close. Nothing was forgotten.

He was not alone in his apprehension. He could tell that Arod was frightened and the horse tried to pull his head away, nickering nervously with ears drawn back. Wide-eyed, the horse's nostrils flared, and then he cried out a fearful whinny and pulled at the grip Legolas had upon his mane. Knowing the horse was sure to run if he did nothing, Legolas turned then and pulled the stallion's head into his chest, whispering gentle words in Sindarin.

From behind he saw Gimli with his short legs rushing to catch up so that he might to stand close to the elf. "This was a mistake," the dwarf muttered. Legolas noticed his axe was out.

He was about to tell his friend to lower the weapon, but at that moment Arod shoved against him in an attempt to flee.

He had hoped they might have met a better greeting, but apparently that was not to be so. Still, he knew what to do. He was apprehensive, for he didn't know how his actions might be met. Still, they were close enough to the bordering edge of the woods that should his idea fail, they could attempt to dash out before harm came. As Arod pushed against him, Legolas brushed his hands beneath the horse's neck, caressing the warm underside of the animal's jawline. And then the elf began to sing.

It was a somewhat timid voice he used at first, done so to calm Arod first. Knowing his master's voice, the beast cocked his ear's forward. Snorting a low groan he pushed his head into Legolas' chest, like a dog burying his face in his owner's lap. The animal's eyes glanced fearfully around, but it seemed the song had the power to make Arod calm.

That gave Legolas the courage to raise his voice and sing outward toward the trees. Though the groans did not cease at first, the swaying stopped and the trees seemed to lean less. The threat seemed to dissipate as the noises stirred by the trees slowly quieted, and in a few minutes all had come to a peaceful halt. He noticed too that the air felt less stifling.

Legolas' companion grunted his approval. Still keeping his voice low, Gimli mumbled, "Good. Good. All is well now. We should leave then." The dwarf was looking around as if he expected a tree to attack at any moment.

Yet the elf would not desert their mission. "Go then, Gimli. You should take Arod with you. I had intended to set him free in any case, but I thought it might be better if he were with us at the moment, in case we needed to make a quick flight. I shall stay though," Legolas announced with his eyes focused on the trees.

Feeling Arod calm, the elf released his horse. He walked to the animal's side. He unloosed their bedrolls and foodstuffs from the animal's back and then said, "Go free, Arod."

Gimli balked then, "You are letting the horse out of this quest?"

"He did not make a promise to come," Legolas replied.

The dwarf's mouth pursed as if he were trying to decide an appropriate response. Turning to Arod, Legolas then said, "Go wander the fields. We will return before a fortnight passes." He then repeated his words in Sindarin, whispering them softly into the horse's ear. He did not really expect Arod to know the exact message, but he did feel the horse could sense the meaning in his instructions. He also knew the animal would come when he called, no matter the distance they traveled or the time it took. Arod would not truly be parted from him.

The animal did not wait for further reason to be gone. With a snort, he turned and then picked his feet through the bramble and walked to the forest edge. At the threshold, the sun shone bright on his flanks, and then he was gone, shooting out into the light and galloping free.

"What makes you so sure he will be there to meet us?" Gimli asked.

Legolas did not need to think through his reply. He tossed the dwarf his bedroll and pack as he answered, "The same thing that makes me sure you will follow me into this forest." Legolas laughed at the glare his friend delivered but he did not counter it in words. Instead he stepped forward, no longer wishing to tarry. The low groans of the wood did not repeat, though behind him he could sense Gimli's hesitation. But then he heard the dwarf sigh and the heavy sound of his friend's feet shuffling to keep up. The elf smiled. Gimli was so very predictable.

Still, he had to respect his companion's fears. Legolas was very aware that this venture held some danger. It was only his fascination for the animated quality of Fangorn's trees and the strange voices in which they spoke that really brought the elf back to these woods. If the truth was to be spoken -- and Gimli had made it so in his earlier declaration -- much of this forest reminded him of the darker recesses of Mirkwood. _But it is not corrupted,_ he thought in defense of Fangorn. _It is not entirely like Mirkwood in that. It is only troubled in part._

Legolas was certain though that the return of song to the woods would open the heart of many of the trees, and that that token offering would give them welcome where there might not have been any otherwise. He had proven it so in just this initial crossing. Wild Mirkwood could not have been tamed with such simple song.

This forest was not like any other forest. It had a soul that was multitudes larger than that of his homeland, or of Lothlorien. It had the hearts of hundreds, perhaps thousands within it. That was what the Ents had made come to life here.

Legolas glanced around, searching for someone who might greet them. Though he knew Treebeard was yet in Isengard, he had hoped that a delegate of the forest might wander near in their journey and that they would not wander unescorted for long.

They were going into foreign ground, and it struck the elf as humorous that, wood-elf though he might have been, he was perplexed and amazed by the alien nature of the forest. Then again, he felt much the same for the woods of Lothlorien. And when he considered that, he felt no shame for his lack of knowledge of such things. It was rather Sindarin of him, he admitted, but for that moment he embraced his innocence, gladdened by the sense of joy that suddenly took him. Here was proof again that there was much to see and learn of Arda. He had much yet to know of Middle-earth before he could say his tasks were done. That was really what he needed in the reality of the world, and he knew that though it was a struggle, he would come to appreciate the odd mixture of dismay and curiosity and awe that he currently felt.

The subtle call of the sea-longing haunted him then, but in this moment of awe, he did not give it much of his attention. His eagerness to learn about what was before them outweighed the pull that the sea put upon him. For this time at least, he was not lured in his thinking to look elsewhere and he knew he had found what he had been searching for at last. What he wanted -- nay, what he needed -- was to feel his use.

He thought a sober thought then, and turned to see that Gimli was still with him. The dwarf had asked of his father, and Legolas had been unwilling to share any information both moments before and even months before. But that needed to change if he were to honor their friendship. Gimli deserved to know all. It would be hard to tell though. Gimli's people already thought so little of the elves of Mirkwood that Legolas was more certain he would be confirming their suspicions rather than dispelling them. At the same time, he knew Gimli to be his friend. The dwarf would not judge him as one and the same as his father. And this too would be part of his healing. He must let go of the past and go forward from here. He would try to forgive.

He smiled then, for he knew that so long as journeys could be made, whether they were taken for the sake of forgiveness or done with the idea of new adventure, Legolas thought he could survive in Middle-earth. For a time more he could survive...

He longed to climb into the trees just then. He could have laughed, for it was so wood-elfish in the face of his fate to the see. But he did not do it. He knew that would not be proper, and even for a Silvan it would be a rather forward thing to do. This forest gave him the sense that he should not do anything too abruptly without getting proper leave from the trees. Thus he resumed his song, knowing it was the one thing he could do that allowed him to communicate when he knew not the language of these trees. He hoped it would give the forest around them cause to recognize that he and Gimli were friends to it.

After their wary entrance, it would seem only right that one's thoughts would be focused on their surroundings and the danger that loomed there. But Gimli had a talent for adapting himself quickly to things that might unhinge other mortal beings. He could accept the danger that surrounded him, and he could act with it as he grew accustomed to it. This was one of the things that kept Gimli keenly attuned as a warrior. After a few minutes of battle, the dwarf's adrenaline would steady out to something seemingly even, and Gimli could fight without panic. It was a great skill to have, and it made Gimli foremost in his observations and ability to remain unflustered in moments of chaos. Not that this moment was one of chaos, but it did have an unnerving quality to it. Still, Gimli's mind was elsewhere, and not so immediately focused on their current surroundings.

On the negative side of such a talent, Gimli often found himself easily bored, and he drove many dwarves wild with frustration that he was no good at just maintaining a semblance of routine. Never was there enough of anything to keep the dwarf still for very long. Gimli always needed something new. The adventurer's life most suited him, though he had not realized it until he had set out on the Quest. That in itself made him slightly less than eager to go home.

And when it came to finding something new to challenge him, Gimli found Legolas was always wildly unpredictable. It made the elf an ideal companion. However, Legolas' behavior when it came to discussion of his father was just infuriating. The elf made no pretense of evading any queries; he simply walked away, even if impolite.

Had he not been introduced at Elrond's council as the son of the infamous Thranduil, Gimli might have dismissed Legolas as just another among the flighty elves taking up seats at that proceeding. Gimli wondered now, had the introductions not been made, might Legolas ever have divulged his bloodline? Even on their Quest, the elf rarely spoke of Thranduil, only mentioning him as his 'lord' or his 'king'. Gimli had thought then that the elf showed only proper respect, as one of the court; now he wondered if there was more than propriety to those deferred comments.

In fact, the more he thought about it the more Gimli could remember nothing Legolas might have said about his family in their journey. True, the elf had much to say of his people, his woodland home, his history, his beliefs, his favorite color, his ideal food choices, his garment closure preferences, and so on and on -- ad nauseam. But on the topic of family, there was nothing of which the elf spoke. It was only then, in that regard, that Gimli came to realize he knew nothing of his friend's personal life.

That was a startling revelation, for Gimli had grown rather close to Legolas, and such details left unknown seemed awkwardly disjointed when compared to all he did know.

Then again, the dwarf came to realize that such information had been hard to pry from him as well, and knowing that, he felt slightly appeased. There were reasons Gimli had not divulged everything of his life. Not that they mattered, but almost, out of a sense of goodwill, the dwarf had felt it better, considering their peoples' past histories together, that he not bring out too many reminders of the bad blood that had been between them. And knowing that he could do it, why should he not believe his elven friend would choose discretion in discussing his family to the dwarf?

Still, Gimli would like to know more of Legolas' home life. And seeing that he had been equally guilty of holding back from the elf, he felt he would have to divulge something of himself first to get to the heart of the matter.

Without preamble the dwarf threw out the first thought that came to his mind. "My father still talks of his days trapped in your dungeons." The abrupt quality of this topic surprised even the dwarf. It was a rather bold and presumptuous thing to say.

However, the comment evoked a response. The elf laughed as if caught off guard by the comment and Gimli called that a success. Legolas raised a quick brow in his friend's direction as he replied, "They are not _my _dungeons, Gimli. But your comment piques my curiosity. In what regard does he speak?"

Thinking he was delivering praise, the dwarf said, "He has told me it was the most elaborately designed prison he had ever seen."

"Oh?" Legolas asked, turning so his expression could not be read. "So saying, I would take that to mean your father is accustomed to frequenting prisons."

Gimli choked on the thought as he began to blurt out, "I did not -- !" But then he caught himself and the obviousness on the elf's part to throw him. He drew out a breath before breaking into a chuckle. Then he said, "Not to my knowledge -- at least not presently. But the comment does make one wonder what knowledge he has on the topic," he replied, doing his best to show humor over what had once been a terse matter between them.

"I would not fret too much about it, Gimli. It is my given observation that were your father more experienced at being jailed, he likely would not have wailed so when he was locked in his cell," the elf said.

Gimli balked. "What do you mean 'wailed'? My father would not have _wailed._"

"Were his experience greater, no, he would not have. But it was apparent to all the Mirkwood elves at the time, given how the prisoners carried on so at being imprisoned, that they had little experience at being incarcerated. So you need not fear for your father's phrasing when he says the Mirkwood cells were the most elaborately designed he had seen. I think he was exaggerating his observation," the elf dismissed.

"As I hope you are!" Gimli fumed.

Legolas turned to gaze upon the dwarf, a look of surprise gracing his face. "You are angry with me? Why?"

"You make my father out to be a coward!"

"I thought you were concerned with his experience."

"Not so much that I would have his honor impugned!" Gimli retorted.

"I do not think I have disparaged Gloin," Legolas replied innocently.

"No? You just said he blubbered like a baby when he was imprisoned! If that is not disparaging I will eat my axe," the dwarf answered.

Legolas rolled his eyes as he turned back to the path. "Those were not my words."

"They were to that effect! Surely you would never describe an elf thusly."

"As _wailing_?" Legolas asked.

"Correct."

"Never!" the elf huffed.

"Then what makes you think I would appreciate such a comparison?"

"I thought I was assuring you of your father's reputation."

Gimli could tell he was holding his breath. "Think again, elf!"

Silence fell as Gimli counted to ten and then he counted again. He reminded himself that this conversation had originally begun because he wanted to loosen Legolas' tongue so that he would speak more on his home life and father. Instead his own father had become the topic of discussion, and not in a favorable way. He knew he needed to change the direction of their conversation, and growing angry because Legolas was turning the tables on him again would not serve his purpose. He reminded himself he needed to stay ahead of his game. Legolas was no dolt. And as he cooled his rage, he returned to the topic, feeling perhaps that that had been a good beginning place, even if the path had veered somewhat.

He began to chuckle as he said, "It was an amusement to him all the same. Had the guard not been drunk, my father might still be there."

But then it ended. Silence followed. Legolas walked before him, his eyes only to the trees. A long emptiness followed, only the creaks and rustling of the forest to direct their attention. It was then that Gimli realized he had said something wrong.

Birdsong filtered into the pause. It seemed oddly wrong for the noise to interject. Gimli only wanted to hear the elf's voice. While he had been angry that the elf had teased, it was not a lasting fury. The silent tension, however, was nearly palpable.

And then came Legolas' voice. "The king sets the example. His people only follow." The interruption was as abrupt as Gimli's initial comment.

But Gimli understood; no more should be said. Many questions came into the dwarf's mind, but asking them now would only cause the elf to close the door to him entirely. He would have to ask of Legolas' life when they were at a place of peace, when Gimli could greater jest on his own behalf.

And just then, their eyes came upon something that broke the forced silence of their walk.

Gimli had felt they might come across an Ent in their passing. But he had not expected to be so surprised by the encounter.

Like a chameleon suddenly showing himself, a large tree in the path slowly dissolved into a physical being, morphing, or so it seemed, in its slow turn from inanimate object into a moving, breathing creature.

He had no idea Ents could be so stealth, but what he witnessed showed it true. With barely any noise, a creature he could only describe as treelike suddenly emerged in the middle of their path. It was tall and wide in its girth, much more sturdy in build than Treebeard, the only other Ent Gimli knew by sight. It was frailer too, showing scars and burn marks across his greater bough. It came to impose its height before them, gazing at them like someone taken by surprise, though that seemed barely possible given all the noise the trees had made before, not to mention the noise he and Legolas had been making.

"_Hroomdoomhoom_. You should not! You should not," the giant Ent rumbled. Its voice was creaky and deep, like a door that has not been opened in a very long time, though the noise was not all that loud. In fact Gimli might have called it a whisper were it not so resonant. The creature looked around suspiciously as if he thought that he might be heard. "You know the danger."

Gimli stood perplexed, just as Legolas appeared, and he knew not what to say to such an inordinate opening in speech.

Legolas recovered himself quickly. "Our apologies, my lord Ent, but for what do you speak?"

"You know better! You do!" the Ent replied anxiously, still scanning their surroundings,

"We are sorry for intruding, if that is what we have done. We have no intention of disturbing your peace. It was our understanding our arrival was expected here, though judging by the trees, perhaps it was not so. Treebeard gave us leave to enter these woods, and we were told the easternmost side would be the most hospitable." He said this as he bent in a deep bow, and to the dwarf it was as if Legolas was addressing the king of a foreign court.

The Ent's brows (were they brows?) arched up as he looked upon the bowing elf and still he spoke as if he whispered. "East, _hoomhoom_. Yes, east is a good direction. It is guarded there. But entering is not so much the problem elf, is it now? For you it is not, for you are here. No, no, it is exiting that is the problem, _hroomhroomhoom_, for they will destroy any that might leave. The opportunity to leave is lost. Surely you know this after all these many days in the forest? They surround us! Best you go back to your colony, northernmost now, lest any others see you about. There would be many questions if they found you wandering, and I will claim nothing of knowing your part in it should they. No, no, nothing. Do not ask it of me."

Legolas stood aright again, his head cocked in a way that showed he was as confused as Gimli by these odd comments. "We have not been in the forest for many days, but by Treebeard's permission, only entered today. As for returning to our northern colony, I must correct you by saying we are not of the Lady's realm, if that is what you think, though we have her favor and grace as well as that of Lord Celeborn. I am Legolas of Mirkwood, and my companion is Gimli of Erebor," the elf said by ways of politely correcting the huge tree-creature.

It seemed then the Ent took notice of Gimli. He leaned back, as if taken in surprise. "You are a dwarf!" he announced abruptly.

"At your service," Gimli said as he sketched a bow, keeping his head up all the same so that he might see this odd Ent and any thing it might do.

The Ent rumbled low, mumbling his thoughts aloud, though the words made little sense, "A dwarf…_hoom_, There was talk amongst the trees of a dwarf and an elf together. But… no, that cannot be… That dwarf died in the crush of the earth. No, no, dwarves do not come here since the golden elf. Are you the golden elf?" he asked, and his eyes went back to Legolas.

"Golden elf?" Legolas replied, perplexed. "I am uncertain what you might mean."

As an aside, Gimli muttered under his breath, "If the Ent wants to call you 'golden', then by all means, let him."

But the Ent negated himself. "Nay, you do not look of him, though to me all elves look the same. Dwarves too," the Ent said as he bent forward to look more carefully at the pair. "Nay, you are not as they."

Legolas and Gimli exchanged glances then, and Gimli saw the look of warning in Legolas' eyes. He knew then what Legolas was thinking and his hand slowly moved so that he could reach his axe-handle in an instant's notice.

"You must be gone then. You cannot be seen, lest the _bainothîr-malthenfast-rhosgenlimflad-raugabonnenulunn_ finds you. It was very daring, stepping out of your hiding place in this way."

Legolas took a step forward, as if in appeal. "We do not wish harm to any here. If you are an emissary, and you are telling us so, we will leave these woods now. No offense is meant by our presence."

That seemed to gain a great deal of the Ent's notice. "Leave? You cannot leave! Have you heard me not?"

Now Gimli was truly perplexed, and growing angry to boot. He did not like the circle of words being spoken around them, and he would know some truth to it. If this Ent was meant to be an ambassador to their entrance he was a poor one. Treebeard seemed a fair enough Ent, and Quickbeam as far as he could tell had been the same, but this one was an odd sort of being. Scowling he retorted then, "Make up your mind. You tell us we must leave and then you tell us we cannot. Which would you have of us?"

And then the Ent rumbled, and it appeared to Gimli that he chuckled. "As if I can say… Silly creatures, one and all…" The Ent seemed to be slowing then, as if he were growing to be more tree again. Sleepy is how the dwarf might have put it. Yet the Ent still spoke, his words seemingly not directed to them but more to himself. "We must protect them, even if they bring danger…they are special…they are…creators of color…" His words trailed off, as if the thought was lost on a dream.

And then the Ent vacantly stared, not speaking, and for a moment, Gimli thought the tree had fallen asleep, elven-styled.

The two companions stood there for a long minute, waiting for what would come next.

"Should we wake him?" Gimli finally asked in a whisper.

Warily Legolas watched the tree-creature. Quietly he replied, "I think this might have been some of the strangeness of the forest Lord Celeborn had spoken of."

"Madness I would call it," Gimli grumbled, but then the Ent stirred, causing the pair to jump back.

Legolas spoke, acting as if there had been no pause in their converse, "I think you have us mistaken. We are not being pursued, and we have permission to come here. We have given you our names, Lord Onod. Will you not give us yours?"

The Ent blinked, as if waking from a stupor, and Gimli thought he saw the creature sway slightly, like one sees in a tavernroom patron losing his balance when he comes to a stand. He seemed not to notice a question had been put to him. His eyes came back to the pair. It was a few moments before he appeared to focus clearly on them. And then he said, "_Hroomloomendoom_…. I have need to parch my thirst. I had no idea it had been so long. When did the call come? Days was it? Water. Yes, that would be a help to me. Yes, yes, it would. My mind is weary. I need a drink and some rest. But I have business elsewhere."

And that was all he said. He did not even appear to notice them.

If an Ent could turn on his heal, that was how it appeared to Gimli. It would have been comical were the stern and disconcerting quality of the old tree not so visible. The dwarf pushed back a shudder that seemed to work from his spine. The mood of the trees seemed to echo the same, and the air grew very still again. The foreboding words of the strange Ent filled him with a disharmony he could not name. He wondered if they might not be better if they sought out orcs and giant spiders with Thranduil and the Mirkwood elves on the other side of the Anduin.

At last Legolas seemed to shake himself free of the mystery and he looked at Gimli. "What do you think of that?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same," the dwarf countered.

"I wonder if madness is typical of this wood?" Legolas said.

"You think the trees crazed?" Gimli asked with alarm.

"Nay, not predominantly, but I think we have witnessed some of the strangeness that abides here," Legolas said, at last reaching out to a tree and tentatively touching it as if that might give him an answer.

But Gimli knew Legolas could no more speak directly to the tree than he could. What the elf could do was sense the tree's mood, and it his. "What I'd like to know is if that madness is isolated or widespread," the dwarf grumbled. "Should we be prepared to flee?"

"I think that would be hard to know, my friend," the elf answered, looking over his shoulder. Legolas then moved to another tree. "But I do think we cannot judge this place like any other place we have been to. These trees are more like men than growing things. Judge your worries for flight as you would that. Their feelings go very deep, and no two of them seem to feel the same." The elf began to stride forward then, going deeper into the woods as if determined to find an answer.

"Why do you think this forest is so different?" Gimli asked, following behind with eyes warily glancing at the trees.

"That is easy to answer, Gimli. It is the Onodrim that make it so. They have worked with the trees long enough to understand their voices and to awaken the spirit within them, the thing that truly feels. That is something I greatly admire."

"Did the elves not do the same?" Gimi asked.

"The Firstborn may have learned to recognize the trees' voices, but the Ents have learned to speak to them and to have them speak back. They have brought them to life. That is different," Legolas replied.

"But how would they do that?" Gimli asked, trying to imagine it.

"How do dwarves know there is gold in the ground? It is something of the gift Iluvatar grants them. The Ents have the ability to do this, just as He grants the Firstborn the ability to make the earth flourish under their touch, and the stones to crumble at the control of the dwarves. Some things just are as they must be," the elf said with a shrug.

"So we keep going?" Gimli asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course we do, Gimli. I will not let the strangeness of one Ent destroy my yearning to know more of the wood."

Gimli sighed, half hoping the elf would want to turn back. But then he thought, _Better we seek this yearning than any other kind_, and so he followed, letting Legolas lead him further.

TBC

_bainothîr-malthenfast-rhosgenlimflad-raugabonnenulunn_ - fair-faced, golden-haired, bronze-skinned, demon-man-creature


	7. A Needed Rest

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Six: A Needed Rest_

"So what does one wear to an Entmoot?" Gimli asked.

They had walked the better part of the day, the odd encounter with the strange Ent almost forgotten as the forest had settled into a lazy calm. How strange, Legolas thought, that the mood of the wood could change so dramatically in such a short time, especially since the Ents professed a disdain for rashness. The agitation of the trees did not seem to heed to this restriction though. It was as if they had walked from one jurisdiction into another, almost like traversing the various levels of Minas Tirith. Each region had a personality all its own, and as they had walked, the elf could feel the mood lightening.

The peace of their journey ended abruptly and Legolas found himself blinking with surprise. He had not seen this encounter coming. All the same, he was pleased to come upon the arrival of the Ents, or more accurately his and Gimli's arrival amongst them. He had expected that they would meet one or two. He had not thought that they would come into contact with so many, and especially in one place at one time.

For a response to the dwarf's question in regards to attire and Ent meetings, he could think of many clever remarks to make, all of them rather comical if only Gimli spoke Sindarin. But as they did not translate well into Westron, and as all attempts he might make to joke about boughing, trunks, or fig leaves were falling dismally short in his mind, he gave up, shrugging and simply saying, "In your case, Gimli, anything that your axe does not accessorize would be fitting." And then the elf chuckled. It was a laugh made for his own joy and not so much his joke.

"They were just there," Gimli said, and Legolas completely understood what his friend meant. So treelike in appearance were the Ents that Legolas had not realized that they stood amongst a whole crowd of them until they were in the thick of them. Yet despite the elf's jubilation, Gimli did not look quite so pleased, and Legolas could sense the wariness emanating from the dwarf. Fortunately, Gimli stilled once he realized how overwhelming the number of Ents was, and though he seemed to bristle under the stares of the great creatures, he did not make any reckless movements.

"All will be well, my friend," Legolas whispered, and he indeed felt it would be so. After their initial encounter with the strange Ent the trees' whispering and murmurs faded. The air had seemed to ease as well, and his initial concerns about an ill mood in the forest seemed to have drifted away as the day progressed. The good will feelings persisted, even in their new company.

One great cedar then lumbered forward, and since Treebeard was yet in Isengard, Legolas took him to be a leader in this gathering. "_Hooomhooomhooom_ and what have we here? _Hoomonooom_, you must be the elf and dwarf that were announced at the entrance to the wood," the Ent said in a very slow, deep rumble.

"That was an announcement?" Gimli asked. "It seemed more a warning telling us to go away."

"_Hooooom?_ Go away? Go away? Nay and no, Ainur forbid, we do not wish you to go away!" the Ent replied. Then bending as best he could to almost bow to the pair, he said, "_Hoom_. Welcome, little ones though I doubt you consider yourselves all that little, now do you? Let me rephrase then if you will allow me to say it so. Welcome to you, friends of the wood, defenders of the good, destroyers of the darkness, companions of the Hobbits. We, the Ents of Fangorn Forest, have been expecting you_. Hmmmmm. Hooomhoom._ Welcome-welcome-welcome!"

Gimli spoke again. "You knew then that we would be coming? The _announcement_ at the edge of the wood did not surprise you?"

"_Hroomroomloom_," the Ent said, and many other Ents repeated the phrase. "Of course and of course not, in that order, as you will. Word reached us Ents before you even entered the forest, and we have had the news of the world besides. It came on the birdsong and the wind. All the Ents know who you are and why you come. We have come together to greet you. Well not all, but almost all. Treebeard sends his good tidings, of course. But the rest of us are together, or the rest of us as best we could gather." And then turning and gazing at his companions, the Ent was met with many nods and gazes of approval. He then redirected his gaze at the pair. "Treebeard wishes you to be made comfortable in our wood, and we Ents," the Ent gestured to all and rumbled a deep chuckle, "are here to do just that!"

The gathering chorused the creaking laughter.

But the dwarf raised a brow and softly muttered, "Not all Ents." Legolas frowned at him knowing Gimli was obviously referring to the one odd Ent, and he wondered if he would be able to move past that one bad event.

"What is that? What is that? Oh no, no, of course, not _all _the Ents could be here," the cedarish Ent said, misunderstanding the comment. "But those that could be spared have come. And those that come have been spared. We owe you our debt of thanks, you see."

"I think it is you who should be thanked," Legolas spoke for the first time, doing so with a deep bow as one might do in showing his respect. He was rather bothered by Gimli's discourtesy as the dwarf did not follow suit, but he also knew the dwarf had not grown up in the courts as Legolas had to know proper etiquette and actions. "Our battles would have come to unfavorable ends, and our enemies would have held their power greater still if not for the part that the Ents played in the war. We are indebted to you, sirs."

The Ent's expression became molded into something of surprise. "Oh, little elf, you must not bow to me, for I am not of royal status. A simple Onodrim is all that you see before you."

"Far greater than that, I would suspect," Legolas countered, putting forth his highest praise.

The Ent's eyes went wide then. "But where are my manners, friend elf, friend dwarf? Too long have I lived in the solitude of the wood. The forest creatures do not require so much so you will forgive me my poor comportment. I must introduce myself, for you know not my name. I am Lendglad, and I am to be your host on this evening," the Ent said with a show of amicable charm, bowing again. "Or you may call me Sweettree. Neither is my correct name, you know, but were I to tell you that you might be here for the remainder of the eve just learning the sounds. Nay, Sweettree am I."

"Host you say?" Gimli queried, eyes lighting up. "Might that mean we might take some refreshment?"

"Hush, Gimli," Legolas urged, suspecting his friend was about to launch into one of his infamous diatribes about the fey ways of elves and how they lived off the air. It was true Gimli had wanted to stop for a break and a meal some time back, but it was Legolas' experience that whenever Gimli was in a place he did not want to be he typically lobbied for a change in venue.

"My companion does not believe in resting and taking leisure," Gimli stated. Legolas scowled, hoping that might halt anything else the dwarf might say against him.

"_Hoohoom_, master dwarf, indeed, indeed, again I must apologize, for I had not said our intentions. Oh yes, indeed I am out of practice in my mannerly behaviors. Yes. I assure you, we would not just offer refreshment … but a feast." Lendglad pointed then to a clearing they had not yet noticed and in the center of it was a massive, low table of stone that was laden with fruits, berries, and nuts of every imaginable kind. "And a feast it shall be, for we have foods of all varieties and varieties of all foods. Pears, plums, grapes, apples, walnuts, pinecones, acorns, pumpkins, squashes, and melons. And much, much more. All things that grow in our wood. You should want for nothing as we come to want nothing but to celebrate your visit. It is a feast, a feast, a feast done in an Entish fashion, and we would have you, if you please, as our guests of honor."

Gimli's smiled brightly then as they were led, slowly, to the vast assortment of foods. "Guests of honor?" Gimli said as his short legs scurried past their host to look upon the vegetation-laden table. He chuckled in appreciation though Legolas knew he would have preferred meat. The elf guessed then that the dwarf was at last showing some manners. "Indeed this is grand! No dwarf would turn down a good meal such as the one you offer. It could only be bested were you to offer drink as well."

"_Hoohooom_," Lendglad laughed loudly. "Drink do you say? _Hoomhooom,_ We Ents would be short on our good will were we not to offer you drink. In fact, we would offer nothing else but our best, for that is the thing enjoyed most by Ents of all kinds," the Ent said.

With that another Ent stepped forward and produced a smallish-looking bowl; by comparison to Gimli though, it seemed rather large. He laid the vessel on the stone before the dwarf.

On later reflection, Legolas would recognize this as the moment when Gimli's attitude toward the Ents would dramatically change. Gimli lifted the bowl to his lips and drank a tentative sip. And then his eyes showed his pleasure as he came to taste the liquid more fully. He gulped greedily of the bowl then until he had drained it. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he announced. "Aye, Sweettree, now _that_ is a good drink! I could make a meal of that alone."

The Ent's eyes shone with mirth. Gimli's eyes reflected much the same, and Legolas was gladdened to see his companion's turn to good spirits. He had feared Gimli would enjoy nothing of this journey but that did not seem the case any longer.

"There is plenty more for you," Lendglad said courteously.

"With this, a fire, and a good smoke, I could be quite content," Gimli said, watching as more of the drink was delivered to him. Legolas smiled because the dwarf was obviously feeling the generosity of his mood.

"Ah, but then we might ask indeed, for word did come of adventures you had undertaken in the days on the Helm's Vale. Would you share your stories of the war with we Ents who know nothing of the outside world?" Lendglad slowly asked.

Legolas almost laughed, for he knew Gimli would enjoy nothing more. He gave his friend a nod and a knowing look to halt the words that might come, then smiled and said, "We thank you for your hospitality. But let me make a request of you. Being an elf, any occasion is one worth celebrating as far as my customs go. So let us celebrate _all_ of our victories and share _all_ of our tales, dwarf, Ent, and elf together, for I would like to hear of those dangers _you_ encountered as well."

A sound that he took as one of approval went up with that, and the feast began. For a while, there was a shared exchange of tales just as Legolas had suggested. But as more Ents arrived and the party around the two travelers grew, distractions arose and some wandered away until the festivities grew into a mass of gatherings. After several hours the assembly took on the appearance of a huge social event, and Legolas at one point or another came to see that it was a celebration for the Ents as much as it was for the paired elf and dwarf.

To his wonder, Legolas had never conceived that so many Ents could be in one place at the same time. It gave him a new sense of assurance that the woods were indeed whole, knowing that there were so many to attend to it, even though his confidence had been shaken with that initial Ent encounter. He had looked for that one all through the evening, and though he thought he saw fleeting glances of that oak-like being, he never came to another face-to-face meeting that evening.

And so the night went on.

As an elf, time had little meaning to Legolas. That is to say that the endless pursuit of life meant each day was a blessing, and with that came a certain amount of respect. It was verily taken for granted that all things occurred in their time, and so Legolas, like any other elf, had learned to be patient and to find joy in the slow methodology of life. It was often an indicator of an elf's age how meticulously they could allow themselves to wait. For though their outward appearance changed little, the inner tranquility of an elf did. Many elves became quite adept at their talent to pause and consider. All could find wonder in the simplest things, and the wisest among them could sit and ponder the opening of a blossom for the life of the bloom, never moving from their spot in the gardens if need did not take them. And so it was with that preparation that Legolas joined the Entish festivities.

However, as could be perceived by the eagerness and swift whims he displayed when in the company of the Fellowship, Legolas was considered a rather young elf. That did not mean he was light in the count of years, for he was older than any living man by many hundreds of years. But when it came to hearing and being heard in the patient plowing of words the Ents brought forth, Legolas was not so wizened and thoughtful as to totally lose himself in their converse. After a time he grew weary and anxious. Perhaps it was his time in the Fellowship and among Men that had done this. It seemed that he was now concerned with the speed of progress and of keeping things moving so that he might pursue whatever was next. He had an agenda. He knew Men's lives ended. To an elf they ended soon, and although he would have loved to dissect the life and loves of this wood bit by bit, there was not time in this journey for that. The Ents just moved far too slow in giving answer to any queries he might put to them for Legolas to fully immerse himself in them. He had thought it might be otherwise.

There too, through the course of the evening, he kept watching to see that Gimli was content, for this was Gimli's journey too, and though Legolas had not initially been thrilled to visit the Aglarond caves, he had been shown great hospitality in the venture by the dwarf. He would give Gimli the same in return if he could. However, Gimli seemed to be deft at eluding the elf on this night. In the few times he did see his friend, Legolas realized he need not worry, for the dwarf appeared to be having a grand time. He could hear Gimli's rumbling laughter mixing with the creaking of the wood. Giving credit to their hosts, Gimli seemed not notice the slow pressings of the Ents. They plied him with drink and questions. Thus he was an unending stream of words whereas they were the quiet calm of … trees. Further, none seemed bothered when he pulled out his pipe and began to smoke. The dwarf truly was in his element.

To Legolas' irritation though, Gimli seemed not to notice any of these attentions were done for his pleasure. Such self-absorption would not do when the dwarf was presented in Mirkwood's courts, Legolas knew, but there would be time to work on Gimli's etiquette before they arrived in Legolas' homeland. Besides, the Ents appeared not to care or even notice. It would be different when they were at Legolas' home. By reputation, Legolas' king was carefree and jovial. But the truth of the matter was that Thranduil regarded the skills of mannerly behavior and propriety quite highly. Though he might appear to be the lord of an easy society, Thranduil truly was enamored with courtly ways. A dwarf who did not bow at the proper time, say the right words at the proper time, offer the right courtesies at the proper time would face rebuke. _At least_, Legolas thought_, the king only locked dwarves in the dungeon for such crimes_. The few higher blooded elves in the court, Legolas amongst them, had to endure greater punishments. Legolas would be sure to guard Gimli and instruct him on the ways to avoid Thranduil's contempt.

For the moment though, he chose not to be burdened by the social slights the dwarf was committing. Instead Legolas focused on partaking in his own amusements. That entailed alternating between fascination, impatience, speaking, singing and … weariness. The realization that he grew tired came as a surprise to the elf. He had not realized just how fatigued he was, but now that he was safely ensconced in the woods, his stifled yawns were making it abundantly clear. He thought about that. All these many months he had been in the city. Though there was peace, sleeping in the abode of men was not so easy a thing for an elf of the woods. Even on the plains, traveling with the entourage that surrounded the king and Lothlorien's lord and lady, Legolas had not been at full ease, always kept at alert by the need to maintain propriety in such noble company. Certainly he had not been comfortable in Aglarond, or Helms Deep for that matter, and of course when the war raged there had been no rest at all for the elf. Legolas then came to realize that the last time he had taken rest in the fullest of elven reverie was when the Fellowship had taken respite in Lothlorien. That had been many long months back, and even for an elf that was a long time to go without real rest. Perhaps here, at last, under the canopy of trees, Legolas might truly find some calm. Still, it would not do to appear fatigued so Legolas tried to squelch his yawns and to forestall his need to retire.

Per the dwarf's request, a bonfire had been lit. It was made with boughs and branches that had littered the forest floor. No tree was harmed for their benefit. Still, it was a tremendous consideration on the Ents' part, for fire was dangerous to these beings. For that, Legolas did not stray far from it. He would be kind in return and be sure the fire never grew out of control, even if it meant the night passed without sleep.

With the fire going, the Ents tossed several large fruits into the coals and showed Legolas how to prod and turn them. When the husks were completely blackened on all sides, the fruit was pulled away and allowed to cool. After a time, the fruit was broken open, and Legolas was astonished to find the inner hull filled with something almost bread-like in taste and texture. It was a pleasure to mix this with much of the more succulent and exotic fruits and nuts laid out on the table, though what one was to do with the pine cones Legolas was unsure.

Beyond the circle of fire, there was great merriment about and it went on through the night. Weary though he had claimed to be earlier, Gimli was completely invigorated. Legolas gave the credit to the draught, for the dwarf had drunk heartily of the bowl, which was constantly being refilled each time Legolas saw him. Legolas, however, had not imbibed.

"Drink, Legolas! You will hurt our hosts' feelings!" Gimli reprimanded, pulling the elf aside.

The elf laughed, "I am watching to see what changes it might bring about in you. I had heard the Hobbits' tales of this drink, and the small increase in their size is evidence of its effect."

"I can see how a gangly creature like you would prefer no more length than what you were born to, but I assure you it is quite safe." Gimli replied with a snort.

"It is true at least that you look quite hale," Legolas confirmed. Indeed, Gimli's color and vitality were visibly increased.

"I will tell you, Legolas, that I have never felt better!" Gimli chuckled as he rocked back on his heels. "If you should choose to make Fangorn your habitat, you must allow me a few barrels of this elixir whenever I might visit. And I can assure you, that would be often," he added as an aside.

"Alas for you then, Gimli, for I feel I will not be making Fangorn my home," the elf replied, whispering this as an aside.

"Why not?" the dwarf asked, looking rather surprised by the suddenness of this decision.

"It was the thought that the forest might need what help I could provide that was rash. I see now that there is nothing wrong with these woods."

"There was something wrong with that Ent we saw today," Gimli answered.

"One can always find flaws, but I think that Ent was more the exception than the rule. Look at how many Ents we have met tonight. Have any of them struck you in the same way as that one Ent?"

"No, but…"

"There will always be some oddities in this world. In fact, I have met an elf or two in my time that were much like that Ent," Legolas argued.

"You jest," Gimli dismissed.

"Oh? I will have you meet Golarithon when we come to Mirkwood. He was my third learning master, and I think you will find he is much like that odd Ent."

"I cannot imagine such a thing. All elves are collected and wise, not scattered and prone to gibberish." Then the dwarf's face went bright red. "I cannot believe I just said that! It must be this drink!"

Legolas laughed. "You mean truths are forced from the mouth of the drinker? I wish it were so. I would bottle it myself as I know many who withhold the truths. But nay, Gimli, I think it not. It was a slight of the tongue initiated by the pleasantness of your mood. Worry not for I will tell no one that you passed a compliment on to the elves. Still Golarithon was none of the 'collected and wise,' and definitely prone to being scattered and uttering gibberish. Why I could tell you tales…"

"Save there," the dwarf interrupted. "I'm sure these trees would love to hear it, but I would pass. This drink is headier than I thought, as my behavior has thus shown. I have spent too much time in your presence already and I fear if I get caught up in your tale I will find myself directing another compliment your way. One compliment is more than sufficient I think, and I feel I have satisfied my quota for a time, so if you will forgive me, I will now resume my part in these festivities."

And to that Legolas laughed as he watched the dwarf stroll into the crowd, and the elf turned to look with a longer eye upon the group.

It appeared that the Ents who were not gathered around the dwarf or elf were finding pleasures involved in the making of music and dance. There was much of it though Legolas would have hardly associated the motion and noise of the trees to those things at first. But as he came to realize that the droning rumble of horns and the percussionist tapping of wood against wood was music and song, he also came to see the slightly rhythmic bending and bowing was dance. It was a strange thing to observe, for the Ents did not necessarily dance in the way one might anticipate other creatures to dance. They did so with slow gestures, done in a synchronized pattern, swaying left and right, then bending as a wind might take them. A step in a circular direction would take them all further out, spiraling as if caught in the tide of a whirlpool, and then the movements would start again, braiding into a new assortment of patterns. Were Legolas alone and not pressed by time, he could have spent days watching just this.

As it was, he did so until the sun rose, and then he and the dwarf reunited. To Legolas' relief Gimli remained hale and whole, despite his lack of sleep, _and _with no discernible change in his stature. It was then that Legolas decided perhaps he might try the pale brew.

"You will drink then?" the dwarf asked.

"I will try it," Legolas agreed. "Just a small amount though." To that the dwarf delivered a large bowl of the clear liquid and put it before the elf. Tentatively did Legolas lift it and put it to his lips. And then he drank.

He had not thought the effect would be so great or so quick. He swayed under its power, stunned by the sudden weakening he felt in his knees. He was dismayed by his reaction, but also stunned to realize that the drink was more sensation than flavor. He could feel the liquid sliding down his throat, and as it did, he felt the heat of it roll through him, working from the inside outward. It was almost like the sensation of drinking a fine cordial, but different in that it soothed in a gentler and greater way, like the effect of a song. The drink worked over him and he felt infinitely brightened as the moment passed, though there had been nothing dim in his mood before. That would have been enough to tell him the full of its effects, but he noticed then something else. It was quite astonishing.

"It is gone," he gasped.

"Legolas?" Gimli asked as he came quickly to the elf's side.

"It is gone! Gimli!"

"What? What is gone?" the dwarf asked, his brow creasing and worry plainly visible within his eyes.

"The sea. I cannot… hear it -- feel it," Legolas incredulously whispered. The sea, which was almost a constant drone in his mind, was muted under the draught's effect. Legolas almost lost his legs in the relief of it.

"Because of the drink?"

"Aye!"

Gimli's laughter sounded loud in the elf's ears. "Then drink more!" he exclaimed.

Laughing as well, Legolas closed his eyes with his second sip, savoring the mellowing calm it gave him. With an effect like this, he wished to drink only the tonic. Finding enough wit about him to speak, he turned to Lendglad and asked, "This is truly magical!"

"It does you good, does it not, little elf?"

"I should say so! You are practically glowing, Legolas," Gimli commented.

"I feel wonderful," the elf agreed, "but I would know the ingredients of this beverage if you would tell me," Legolas said to Lendglad.

"I would tell. Indeed I would, if I had the ingredients to give, that is. Alas, _hoomhoom_, all I can tell you is that this draught draws forth from the springs of the earth. Our roots do not touch it for it delves deep into the rock," Lendglad said.

"From the ground?" Gimli asked. "Nonsense! I have drunk many draughts in my life before this, but never one that made me quite so merry. I believe I know what you hint at and I will tell you this is not simply water."

"No, no, I think not, _hoohooooooooooom_. But I will say that each Ent builds his home around these springs. It is what makes our homes 'home', to an Ent at least," Lendglad slowly said.

"A gift from Yavanna," Legolas sighed. "And perhaps Irmo as well. So that is why the forest stays so contained and has not spread in all its millennia." Then he looked with clearer eyes on the Ent. "May I see where you draw this drink?"

"Of course, of course, of course." And so he was shown the place where water poured from the cracks of a stone wall and into a basin at the foot of it, spilling out and creating a brook. He tasted it, and indeed found it still to be the magical elixir.

"Perhaps my jest from earlier was not so much a jest. Can you imagine the fortune to be made if one could bottle this brew?" Gimli asked.

"Somehow I do not believe the magic would hold once it was removed from its source," Legolas replied thinking about that.

"Still, with this I can imagine no tree in these lands to wish to venture far from here," Gimli said.

"You forget the Ent-wives, Gimli," Legolas reminded. The thought of their departure and the Ents' loneliness saddened him suddenly.

But Lendglad interjected, "Do not fear for them, Master Legolas, for Ents and Ent-wives survive rather well when they put a mind to it. I cannot say for sure, for I am not an Ent-wife, but from my own experience I can guess that the magic may have followed them."

"You mean they brought water with them?" Gimli asked in confusion.

"What I mean, Master Dwarf, is that the magic is _hroohoom_ within them, just the same as it is within all the elves," the Ent replied.

The comment appeared to make little sense to Gimli. "I have yet to see elves turn water into wine," he mumbled.

"Nonono, but elves indeed have the power to enchant a land," Lendglad said, but his mood had grown slow and somber.

Legolas felt distressed. "I am sorry, Lendglad, if mention of the Ent-wives saddens you," Legolas said.

"_Hoommmm_. Sorrow is a part of how we live as Ents. We will always have our regrets, I am afraid. Not all of us are as spirited and friendly as you saw last night," the Ent said.

"Indeed," Gimli confirmed, and Legolas knew the dwarf was again speaking of the strange Ent they had encountered, but the elf directed his next question to the Ent.

"Are these the ones with the 'blackened hearts' as Treebeard had said? What would cause trees to go so afoul?" Legolas asked.

"Who can say? Who can say? Perhaps it is a chink left unattended and allowed to rot. _Hoooom._ Perhaps it is a bad spell of weather that dries up or muddies one's roots. Perhaps it is just in the nature of the creature to have some bad within them. There are those in Fangorn that fit these ills, yes, but such exists in all kingdoms, or at least I would guess it so. Surely little elf, little dwarf, you can think of some among your people that you might say had 'blackened hearts'?" Lendglad asked.

Nodding his head as in agreement, Legolas said, "Still, it sets me to despair to think more trees had gone dark over the last many years. Do you think they might find a cure?"

The Ent leaned back then and seemed to grow taller in that moment, like a teacher looking pleased with the reply of a student. "_Hoohooooooooom._ All things can be healed, I believe, I believe. Of course, the body must be cured first, but sometimes all it takes is forgiveness."

Legolas did not have time to really consider that as Gimli asked, "I suppose then we should try to forgive the Ent who tried to make us leave upon our arrival."

"Upon your arrival? Arrival you say? An Ent tried to keep you out?" The tree-like creature seemed to be upset to hear this news.

Sensing a deep brooding from Lendglad, Legolas replied, "It was more like he was trying to get us to stay hidden, as if he was concerned that we not make our presence known. He said he did not want Treebeard to know we were here."

The old cedar cocked his head as if in thought about this revelation, "And what did he look like, _vrhoomhooom_, I wonder?"

Legolas thought for a moment before answering. "He was rather oak-like in appearance, I think. And his top branches were bare, as if they had been damaged by a blight or fire."

Lendglad's mood seemed to grow cheerless then, his brow relaxing into a strained expression. "Ah, ah, that would be Mithtaur. _Hooooooooooom. Hoooooooooom_. Greywood, you would call him, Master Dwarf. I apologize for anything he might have said to you. His story is a sad one and he has his reasons for acting odd."

"It is said there are many peculiarities of the wood," Legolas replied.

"Truetrue, and much history as well." Lendglad nodded.

"And history is what we came to know. But we will not press for Greywood's story. It would not be seemly to share it, I think. Just tell us what we might say to him to avoid ire should we meet again in the forest," the elf replied.

"_Humhoom Hoom_. Though Greywood may have given the impression otherwise, he would hurt no one or nothing. He tends a grove of sickly trees and a swale that was sent to ruin in darker days. At heart, he is not black though his story is a regrettable one. He was too caring to remove himself from his task and the harm that came to him in those days lives still in these."

"It sounds to be a compelling tale. I would love to hear it," Gimli replied. The dwarf had found a comfortable spot at the base of a gnarly willow, and he settled in as if he were a child about to get a bedtime story.

Legolas gave a scornful look to his companion. Again the dwarf was showing poor manners, but again the dwarf seemed not to care. He frowned at Legolas then, as if he had taken notice of the elf's expression, but he was obviously not about to apologize leaving Legolas only to sigh in his exasperation. Then turning to Lendglad he said, "My stout friend seems to have lost his manners. We would not intrude on private matters."

"_Hum hum_," the tree erupted with laughter. "Oh no need for manners here, dear, little elf. The _nibenthavron-ned-gathrod_ are all this way. They speak their minds. There is something in that that we Ents find refreshing. Yet Dwarves do not wander in their thoughts like us. Dwarves are abrupt and purposeful. And so it has been for past generations, though I know of no recent dwarf visits. Still, I recall the likes of Narvi, and the others, and they were much like him."

"Narvi, the dwarf? You knew of him?" Gimli said with newly piqued curiosity. Legolas could practically see the dwarf's beard twitching with excitement.

"Indeed I did, though our acquaintance was brief. And because his companion was as your companion, he always came with Celebrimbor, and he I knew as well."

"Celebrimbor and Narvi wandered these woods?" Legolas asked, his voice sounding as brightened as Gimli's. He was suddenly feeling that the forest was made that much the greater with this information. "What brought them here?"

"What indeed! Indeed! Indeed! Ah, but those were wandering days, and many elves came and left these woods then. Some even went so far as to try to settle here."

"Elves in Fangorn Forest?" Legolas asked in astonishment. "I cannot imagine a more wondrous thing! But why do none live here now?"

"_Hummm hoom_, and there we find ourselves where we began, for this tale and the one of Mithtaur are the same," Lendglad replied. "It happened in those times when Celebrimbor and Narvi wandered and openly worked together. They came, and so did many others from their realms."

"Hold there. Dwarves of Moria came here as well?" inquired Gimli.

Lendglad truly seemed to smile, and with a look much like a parent to a child, he said, "Settle in then, friends, and I will tell all. You are weary, and you must feel it by now. The festivities will continue for many days yet, so better to find your rest if you are to join in. Find your comfort, and I will speak all."

As if by suggestion, Legolas yawned. It had been a long time since he had yawned. Perhaps it was not so wrong to delve into the life of one Ent. That is, if it promised a tale of history as well. He then climbed into one of the lower branches of the tree. His position gave him the opportunity to recline. The relief from the sea-longing eased him tremendously and he was truly feeling his fatigue now. And so, reclining in the low branch, the elf followed Lendglad's direction and made a place of comfort for himself. It felt almost as if the tree wrapped arms around him and he felt restful and at ease. And then Lendglad's voice started to drone softly, telling a tale of an Entish past.

"It was not such a long time ago by an Ent's reckoning, but to a dwarf or a man or a tree, or for that matter to anyone who feels age, it was a great distance of time past," Lendglad began. "Many trees have parted since, and I dare think even a greater number of men and dwarves have parted too _hooomhooomhooom_. But what is most tragic is that those who should not have parted have, and that those who remain live on with damaged lives.

"But you see, the forest was a different place then. The trees were far more alive and active in those days than now. A good many trees had voices full and strong. Perhaps that is why no elf deemed ever to live in these woods. There was no need. We Ents had done our job well at advancing what was here. We had tamed them and made them safe and whole, and the forest was a good place, not sleepy and dark as it is now_, hooooooom._ That came later.

"But at the time of this tale the wood was a fair place to visit and the enchantment of the elves was not needed to make it thrive.

"That is not to say that elves did not come here. _Hooom._ In the wandering times, many elves came to the wood. Nandor, Sindar, Noldor, and Silvan. Even the Vanyar were here in the ancient days. The green elves came, but the voices of the trees worried them, and they feared the freedom of the roaming wilderness. The Noldor respected us too much, and worried their presence would hurt us. _Oooohoom._ The Sindarin elves seemed a merry lot, but they were a wayward folk and did not seem to settle easily. And so on. There was always a reason that the forest was not right for an elven home.

"It was Celebrimbor who led Narvi and the dwarves into this land and it was Treebeard who greeted and hosted them. They walked many miles through these woods, and the tongues of the dwarves were much like the tongue of you, Master Gimli. They were sharp and ready and round with laughter and cheer. They brought us much amusement, and for a time, many of us Ents thought they might remain. But it was not so destined."

Lendglad's voice was rich and somber as he began the tale and Legolas found his mind drifting with the words, as if he could envision the events occurring within his mind's eye. This was the way of reverie, both aware of the real world, and living in a place where thought came to life.

"The first time Celebrimbor came to these woods, he was alone. He had been traveling between Moria and Lothlorien, visiting those realms and finishing tasks of one sort or another. I confess to know little of his business. But he had met with Treebeard then, and together they talked of future visits. He had been moved in his journey by the wonders of this wood, and he said that he had come because he had been told of the great beauty in these lands." The Ent chuckled. "He was right in this, of course." And to this, Legolas could see the forest as it was in those days.

Great vales and terraced slopes were green with life. These were happy days. The realm was different, not so ancient and thick as it was now. He could see the figure of an elf, a Noldor who was not of the woods, walking stiffly and regally through the lands. He knew just by silhouette that this was how Celebrimbor would be.

"In his second visit he brought Narvi the dwarf with him, and on subsequent visits the dwarf brought other dwarves." And here Legolas imagined the heavy traipse of dwarven boots rattling in the thickets and figures stooping to sniff the soil and stomp the ground. Lendglad went on. "They went searching for caves in these lands, you see," and Legolas laughed for the comment fit so well with how he would have imagined it.

"Did they find any?" Legolas heard Gimli ask, excitement evident in the dwarf's voice. The query roused the elf from the beginnings of his reverie. If Gimli would cease speaking, he might re-attain it, for the Ent's voice was melodic in its deep sound, and Legolas found it pleasant to hear.

"Caves? Indeed, they did, they did. It was in the northern lands, in Mithtaur's part of the wood," Lendglad replied.

"Mithtaur!"

"Aye, yes, aye, But if you suspect that is the reason for his troubles you would be wrong. His troubles were from other sources."

"What did they find in the caves?" Gimli asked, quickly changing the topic, and that irritated Legolas. They might never get to the beginning of this tale if the dwarf persisted in asking questions.

"Naught. There was naught for their labors. Some green clay, they brought forth, but not enough to make its delving worth the effort, or so they said."

"Copper. I see," Gimli said. He sounded disappointed.

"Copper! Yes, that was the name of the orange metal they made from what they melted. They did not appear happy."

"No, they would not be."

"The dwarves did not come back, save Narvi. He came with Celebrimbor. And there was that other elf, the one from the -- _hoomhoom -- _guild. Yes, guild -- that is what they called it. He followed the golden elf closely. And for a few years after, more elves appeared."

"Tell me more," Gimli said, and Legolas could tell the dwarf's interest was piqued despite the fact that great gems were not prevalent in these lands.

"Of the other elves or of the dwarf?" Lendglad asked.

"All. And Celebrimbor too. You said they all fit in the tale." _Now_, Legolas thought, _we resume the tale_.

"I did. I did. Oh dear, but I am being cryptic, am I not? So unlike an Ent. But the tale is long, master dwarf, and I try to tell it in haste. Mortals are so frail. I would not wish you to expire in the time it might take to tell in its full."

Gimli snorted. "Whilst I appreciate that, I'm certain I would grow impatient were the story to go on so long. Perhaps if you told me of the elves that came to settle here. Why did they come?"

"Why? Why? That is a question only they could answer, for every one had a reason all their own. But it might be that they fell in love with Mithtaur's lands. I will tell you of that, if you like. I will tell you of the day when the guild elf and Celebrimbor and Narvi came. It was a first for the elf of the guild. He had never accompanied the other two on a journey before, and he was astonished by the sight of what was presented to him."

"Will this explain what occurred with Mithtaur?"

"In a way, yes, yes, it will."

It was enough. They might never get to the story at this rate and the discussion was doing nothing to aid Legolas in attaining rest!

"Perhaps if you waited and just heard what was said, your answers would come, Gimli," Legolas scolded. The annoyance in his voice was quite clear. Legolas knew he was as eager to hear the story as the dwarf, but the constant search for more was only slowing its progress.

"Very well. Peace, Legolas. Peace then … carry on, Sweettree. I will be silent," the dwarf said. To give in so easily made it clear that the dwarf truly was in a pleasant mood and Legolas immediately felt guilty for speaking so curtly. On the other hand, Gimli could be heard leaning back and growing silent. Legolas knew then that the tale would be allowed to be told as it should. He would take that.

Thus, Legolas let go. He let what was natural take him to his ease of full restfulness. His body needed this peace, as did his mind.

The distant treesong that accompanied Lendglad's tale then had a tranquilizing effect. The timbre of the multitude of voices made them seem as if they were all about him and uttered only for his ear. _"Rest. Rest is what you need. Lay back. Hear our voices, little elf. Let us sing and tell you our tales. We will help you to heal. Restrestrest. Sleeeeep…" _

And Legolas found himself wishing for nothing more. Sleep. How comforting it was. How healing. He understood then just how damaged he was. The sea plagued him in ways he had not realized, and this relief showed him how deeply he had been wounded. But with the drink and with Lendglad's words, he was free. He could sleep -- and dream -- as he had not done for quite a long time.

TBC

_nibenthavron-ned-gathrod_ - small builders of the caves


	8. Encounters with the Past

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Seven: Encounters with the Past _

Lendglad set the tale and Legolas drifted into reverie as it was told. In it he was taken to a place he had never before visited. He saw the vision of a forest garden made gloriously beautiful to his mind. Elves were like that. They could see the full of a picture in their minds with the littlest of details spoken. How many times had he fallen into reverie in his own homeland doing such, allowing the treesong to set him free on paths from times before his birth? Or drifted off as Gimli spoke tales of the dwarves, becoming intertwined in the story as if he lived it. Occasionally voices from others who wandered near as he slept would mesh into his dreams. But always the dream was of his make, coming from his mind. His actions were always guided by his own will or memory of such. That was what it was to dream as an elf. It was also one of the reasons the Hall of Fire at the Last Homely House was so well attended. Elves loved to live in tales of the past, most especially if they could act witness to it themselves.

Of course, Legolas knew his present and what occurred about him even as his eyes glazed over and he fell into soft, even breathes. Beneath him he could hear Gimli settling into his own resting place while the music of the Ents continued, celebrating still the night (even though it was now morn). For a moment he amused himself by thinking that they might be still at the same song when he chose to wake. But then he focused himself on the treesong deciding that this was what would make up the fabric of his dream, with Lendglad composing the tale.

Legolas drifted. He fell. The branch that he lay upon was solid under his back, and yet he was elsewhere, swaying, dizzyingly stumbling. The world spun slightly, and he laughed. He suddenly found himself in the company of others tramping through a wood. Tramping. And then he realized he was in the company of Ents, plus others, though he could not fully make them out for the Ent bodies. The Ents seemed to be leading them, and there were three of them in all.

"It is not much further, friends. We are almost there," one Ent said, and Legolas suddenly realized this was Mithtaur speaking. _Mithtaur?_ His immediate wariness almost forced him to wake. _This_ was the Ent that had warned them away from the woods. But then he sensed the secure feeling of the trees as well as those around him and his mood lightened. It seemed this Ent was not as he had been when Legolas and Gimli had met him. He was smiling and laughing. "I get so few visitors_, hoohoom_, but I think you will agree, friends-of-Fangorn, that it is the most beautiful place in the wood. Yes_, onceyouseeit_ you will agree. And once done you will never wish to go anywhere else! _Ho ho hoom!_ Yes, I do believe it so!" And Legolas had to laugh despite himself, for the Ent's voice indeed was full of a rumbling good spirit.

"It was so the last time I visited here," Legolas heard a voice say from behind him. He tried to glance at the speaker but the Ents blocked his view. It did not matter for he immediately came to know who he had heard.

"Ah, but you, Master Narvi, are not the guest of honor on this day, now are you _hooom_?" Lendglad was saying this. "And since you have visited this part of the wood afore, it is no surprise to you, I would think. Let this be Celebrimbor's to reveal,"

Legolas then looked at the third Ent and he was pleased to realize this one was Treebeard. And then he eased entirely, for he trusted that Ent most of all. If Treebeard was present, nothing out of place would occur. He felt sure of it.

"I may have been down this path before, Greywood, but I do not recall it being so far away," the voice of Narvi said from behind Legolas, panting a little to keep up the strides of the others.

"That is because you were never quite as -- shall we say -- quenched of your thirst when we traveled here before," another said, and Legolas thought this must be the voice of Celebrimbor. He began again an attempt to see the speaker, but then he found himself stumbling slightly over a tree root that he had not seen ahead of him a moment before. How strange! Had he nearly tripped? But this was a dream! He should not trip in his dreams. He should glide. He should coast. But to walk? To trip? That was not something he had even experienced when living dreams in the Hall of Fire! Ai, but Celeborn had been correct when he had said Fangorn was a strange forest if tales could be told so in depth as the make the listener truly experience everything within the story!

Afraid he might fall and be left behind in this dream, Legolas redirected his attention before him. He felt sure he would get another chance to look upon the great Celebrimbor before long. And too, he sensed the trees were rather mischievous in this part of the wood. The travelers would have to be wary of their steps.

"Speak for yourself, brother elf. I am well," Narvi replied.

"I do, cousin!" laughed the other.

But then a third voice interjected with half-hearted mirth, "How you both can claim familiar ties, I cannot comprehend. If you are related to dwarves, Celebrimbor, then I am related to toads."

Celebrimbor laughed. "I do see the resemblance!"

"_Hooooom hoomhoom_," Treebeard laughed.

"You know what I mean," the other elf replied.

Celebrimbor's voice answered, and there was a commanding quality to the elf's words. "The green elves see it; so might we. We are all the children of Iluvatar. And being so, I have come to recognize Narvi as brother and cousin to me. Ah, but I see the scowl on your face, Faeldaer, even if you turn your head from me. You must stop being influenced by the Sindar. Such prejudices do not live well in Eregion and they will be the ruin of our races if we are not careful. There, that is better. Yes. But we will have to take up this discussion more fully at a later date. Look, we have arrived!"

And so they had, for the Ents entered a clearing in the wood and were leading the way out into what seemed to be the last rays of golden sun. But just as they were about to make way into the light, a grunt and a gasp could be heard from behind.

Legolas was finally able to turn about, and when he did he saw a dwarven figure sprawled upon the ground. A taller figure rushed to his side and was hauling him up, but the dwarf seemed to be unharmed and was laughing. The third figure, an elf was standing in silhouette, away from the two, hands on hips. He spoke. "As close as you are to the ground, one would not think it so hard to navigate your own steps, Master Dwarf."

Narvi merely brushed himself off, then looked up to the tree over whose roots he had tripped. "I may travel without axe, friend," he said to the maple, "but I can seek retributions if I have a mind to it."

But the darkened figure replied, "Blame a tree then for your awkwardness. Why not recognize your inebriation as cause for your fall and be done with it?"

"I would, Master Elf, but I am _not _drunk!" Narvi answered, and Legolas came to agree that he was not. If Narvi indeed had been imbibing in Ent draught, as Legolas had no doubt he had, the elf knew from personal experience that what he was feeling was not the same as a state of typical tavernroom drunkenness. Though Legolas could not understand how this drink worked, it did have the heady effect of an ale upon its drinker -- somewhat -- but at the same time it was cleaner in taste than ale, more refreshing and its effect was natural and enhancing to the body. Stumbling where he stood, Narvi continued, "Were it so, I would be feeling rather ill in the morn. But I know I will not. Will I Treebeard?"

_"Hooomhoom_, I cannot say what this drink does to a dwarf, but never in your prior journeys have you appeared to feel adverse effect, Master Narvi. Nay, do not blame the drink. This fall was not due to stumbling feet, but caused by the trees that guard this haven."

"See! It was the tree," Narvi sniffed at the shadowed elf.

"Mithtaur, you are too pliant with them," Treebeard said though his voice was not scolding. "You must apply a harsher rod. Do they not know you bring guests forth?"

"I will take them to task for their poor behavior, my lord," Mithtaur replied as he paled (at least to Legolas' eyes it appeared he did) and Legolas felt pity for the Ent's shame. The Ent bowed then and his servitude to Treebeard was very apparent. Somehow Legolas came to understand then that Mithtaur governed just one small sector in this wood. He wondered then which role of leadership Lendglad played in the hierarchy. Was he Mithtaur's superior?

The dwarf blinked at Treebeard then, changing the subject dramatically. "Seriously, Lord Fangorn. I am telling you, we should bottle this drink. Can you imagine the fortune to be had for its curative effects?"

Had that not been what Gimli had said? "So like a dwarf," Legolas heard the silhouetted figure say. "How much wealth do you need before you stop thinking of ways to create more?"

The dwarf just laughed. "I shall never stop conceiving ideas, if that is what you ask," he answered. "My joy comes in profit! Perhaps you should wonder more what it is I do with my earnings. Ho, there! Is that not what you really resent?"

"I wonder nothing of you, Master Narvi, and thus I have nothing to resent," this other elf said as he stepped forward into the light. And though the words were said with good humor, there was snide quality to the reply. Legolas felt certain then that this one could _not _be Celebrimbor despite an elegant beauty that was distinctly Noldo in the elf. The silhouette of high cheekbones and firm jaw line clearly gave the lineage of this elf away. However, as he came into the clearing, Legolas could see that the light brown hair that fell to his shoulder was left loose and unadorned, marking him of more common blood. Still, there was a regal air to this elf, and Legolas detected an import that had nothing to do with bloodlines. What was unusual was the elf's eyes. They were almost golden in hue. Light and translucent, like the color of clover honey, the color was unusual for an elf and Legolas found himself entranced by it.

But then this elf's eyes narrowed as a question formed on his brow. With quicker steps he moved into the full light of day, gasping, and Legolas followed his path. There was obviously something ahead worth seeing. He halted at the archway created by the sweep of tree branches, and Legolas felt his jaw drop as he too took in the sight before them.

"A lake atop a hill?" Legolas asked in astonishment. He had actually said the words aloud, but so had the other. He apparently was not alone in his surprise.

And from behind, elf and dwarf shared laughter. It was then that the elf Legolas believed truly was Celebrimbor stepped forward next to the Noldor elf. He placed a hand upon his shoulder as he said, "I had wondered how long it might be before you would notice. Is it not spectacular, Faeldaer?"

_Faeldaer._ So that was the name of this other elf. He knew nothing in history of a Faeldaer.

But then Legolas too turned his eyes to the landscape so that he might see what they did. That was when he fully came to appreciate Lendglad's gift of tale. No story Gimli had ever conveyed had done so much to fuel the images in Legolas' mind as this one.

In the full of early summer's array the region was showcased as a breathtaking spectacle. From this perch on the slope, one could see where the forest ended and all of the fields laid open below. His eyes traveled north to where the craggy-skinned mountains, white-crested still, tapered into flat land, trailing like roots into grass. He followed the rugged trail of the slopes with his eyes as it merged into the beginnings of their forest, the green of brush, bush and tree merging until it came to one mass and formed Fangorn Forest. But the incredible vista was not what made the scene so breathtaking. The trickling sound of water could be heard to his ears, and he knew that it played down the slopes of the ridge. This is where his eyes went and where the full of his appreciation could be found. The entirety of this vista appeared mirrored on the surface of a pristine pool, as clear and tranquil as any Legolas had known. There was a steep rise all around them making this plain more a terrace off the mountain than a part of the ascending hills one might expect, and other than the forest path they had followed, their appeared no other way to reach this part of land unless one were to scale the rocky crags surrounding it.

"It is impossible!" Faeldaer replied. Indeed it seemed only too true.

And then Legolas's eyes tried to follow to the place where his ears found water. So it seemed the ledge upon which they stood was the place from which the spring trickled free. He could hear it pour into the basin of a lake below them. Too, it appeared to open into a small river that trickled past the catch, chasing down the hillside and into the valley below. He could see the running ribbon sparkle in the evening light, like azure crystals, while it meandered through the tall grasses and on beyond his sight in the fields of the plain far below.

Narvi scoffed as he too came to stand beside the other two. "It is unusual, but not impossible. It proves that there is granite below the surface, a solid bedrock. Of course, there are minerals further beyond, in the caves we had already explored. Those entrances are just below, on the lower rise."

"Caves?" Faeldaer queried, but his eyes did not leave the scenery.

"There is nothing to speak of for riches in those places. Still, wealth in the earth or not, I think this is a lovely place," Celebrimbor said. At last he could be seen. Legolas gazed hard upon the elf, memorizing every detail of the Hollin lord as he marveled at what a wonderful bit of history he was being allowed to relive. Celebrimbor was tall and golden to look upon, though his coloring was more the hue of topaz -- rich and radiant and warm. His garb for this strange journey was of much the same tones -- browns and berries and golds. His hair, though plaited, was not done up in any elaborate style, as was the custom of the Noldor courts. Then again, the elf lord was traveling, and their entourage was rather small. The show of rank was really rather unnecessary here, save but to impress the Ents, and Legolas knew that was uncalled for. But most astonishing was not these outward traits of the elf lord but more the detail of him. The dimming light of Anor glowed on him and it flushed his skin in peachy tones as the sky radiated reds, pinks, lavenders and royal blues composing the full of a summer sunset. He was beautiful to behold. . .

And then Legolas turned to look fully upon Narvi and he found himself smiling at the sight. The dwarf told of in tale -- the constant friend to Celebrimbor -- the one who had built the Moria doors with magic of his own -- was dark in color. His clothing was the color of the earth -- charcoal and clay, and the fabrics were dense and heavy in weight but not of the metal and mail Gimli fashioned himself in. His hair was thick and black and wiry, but it was plaited into an intricate array of braids that showed an artfulness in his manner. That small detail told Legolas that he was not like Gimli, who plaited his beard in a simpler manner so that he might better fight. Narvi's burly body was the opposite of his elven companion' -- where Celebrimbor was long, lean, and stern of form, he was thick, sturdy and solid. There was nothing unfit in his appearance. In fact he looked rugged and strong.

Turning to the Ents who stood sentinel behind them, Celebrimbor said, "It is magical. I never grow tired of it."

"How is it done?" Faeldaer asked.

Treebeard voiced credit, "_Hoomhoom._ The art belongs to Mithtaur."

"Art?" Narvi questioned. "It does not just occur of its own accord?"

"Oh, no, it is art," Celebrimbor appraised, agreeing with the tree lord. And he said as he gazed upon the jewel-toned landscape, "It is like the craft put upon gem and metal, Narvi. So beautiful! Do you not see it as you would the light upon emeralds and sapphires? Surely you can see this is more than naturally made?"

"Aye, I suppose I do," Narvi said in humbler voice. "Yes, it is great craft, I will concede."

Turning to Mithtaur, the golden elf said, "You are exceedingly talented!"

There was what appeared to be a blush coming from the graying oak. With a dip of his head he said, "You are kind, lord elf. I merely do what I find natural as an Ent." Behind him, Treebeard smiled.

"Nay, I am honest," the elf lord replied, sounding earnest as he stepped nearer the Ent, laying a hand upon his bark-like skin. "You must share your secrets with me, for it is apparent your gift is magical."

"So says one whose talents might also be called _magical_," Narvi added, then turned to Mithtaur, nodding and winking. "Such praise does not come often, Lord Tree. If Celebrimbor respects your craft, believe me, friend, it is indeed fine work."

Mithtaur seemed suddenly shy with those words, and Legolas mused that he appeared almost bashful basking under the high praise. "Thank you. I believe, is it correct, that those are the words I might say. Yes, yes, thank you. That is what I must say." But the Ent seemed somewhat confused, and that was not lost upon the others.

Treebeard's brow screwed up as he watched the exchange. He cocked his head to the side. "You look perplexed, my friend. What troubles you?"

Mithtaur blustered, a look of surprise spreading across his face. "Troubled I am not, But perplexed I am. I… " Here the Ent seemed to pause, but then turned back to Celebrimbor and Narvi as if they held clues to what he was trying to say. "You will forgive me, elf-friend, dwarf-friend, dear companions of the wood. I recognize that you give me a compliment and truly do I appreciate your praise for these gardens."

"It is my pleasure to give them," Celebrimbor replied, but the slight smile nicking the corners of his mouth told that he awaited what more the Ent had to say.

"Yet your words…" Mithtaur continued.

"Do we speak in wrong terms?" Narvi interrupted, and Celebrimbor raised a brow as if it were not unusual that the dwarf would do such a thing. How many times had Legolas had such an expression himself? Dwarves were an impatient lot. But Narvi took no notice of any of this as he went on to say. "The Common Tongue can be confusing I suppose if one is accustomed to speaking only in Entish words. Tell us what it is you did not understand and we will explain what was meant."

Shyly the Ent glanced to his other Ent companions before turning to the elf and dwarf again. "You speak of gems and metals -- emeralds and sapphires I believe you also said -- and yet …._Hooooom_… _These_ words are strange to me. What are _gems_? What are _metals_?"

Celebrimbor burst into a sudden heart-warming laugh, and Narvi chuckled a deep rumble at his side. Even Faeldaer smiled. As Legolas looked upon the Ents for reaction, he realized then that neither Lendglad nor Fangorn knew these terms either and they seemed fascinated and perplexed at the elf and dwarf response.

Celebrimbor began, "Oh, but of course! Of course! What fools we are Narvi! We assume too much. Why would Ents wonder of jewels? See, Faeldaer, the good earth is where we must learn to focus our eyes. That is where the salvation of these lands will come. Prestige, heritage, pride mean nothing here. The Ents are much like our Nandor kin. The Green Elves are so right! Fine then," he said to the Ents as his face brightened in smile, "We must describe these things then."

"Start with the fires, Celebrimbor," Narvi suggested.

"Nay, not fire, for they would not understand such a force. The sun though…" the elf's eyes turned to the last rays bouncing over the mountainside behind them. "In the making of metals, Anar is like the fire of a forge. Yes, I think you might comprehend that more," he said as he glanced then at the Ents. "It brings out the beauty that is hidden beneath. Under layers of harsh rock, when a fire is put to it, similar beauty is brought out. Gold melts into new form when the heat touches it. It is amazing to watch it drizzle free from hard rock. For you, it is like the sun touching the muddy soil, except instead, for you, seedlings spring forth. This is what gold is like."

"Yes, I like that! How well put! And the gems. Tell of the gems," Narvi urged.

"Emeralds and sapphires and rubies and diamonds. They come in all colors and it is as if they enhance what is around them, reflecting life."

"Like a blossom? This is how I would describe a blossom," Mithtaur said and Legolas appreciated the simplicity of this comparison.

"Such is a gem," replied the elf, nodding. "They are like the blooms of the flowers or the growth of new leaves. And they are rich. Rich. Like the water of your pool. Translucent and deep, they radiate light like the sun -- like _gold_, like_ diamonds! _They sparkle and flare. They enhance all that is around them and make the beauty even that much the greater."

"_Hooooom,_ yes, I see. I see. I understand now," Mithtaur said, nodding and looking pleased. "They are miraculous. That is how I look upon them. Each blossom to me is like a gem to you. They are treasures. But tell me if it is the same for you, for I see these as _life_."

"_Life_. Oh yes! Life! That is exactly it! No gem-smith would say otherwise. For you see, when watching stones take shape, seeing metal take its form…why yes, dear Mithtaur, it is like watching a birth. Only more wondrous because I know this was conceived of my own hands. With the magic Iluvatar has granted, my crafts indeed are alive," Celebrimbor confirmed, "I can only imagine it is the same thing you feel when you dig your feet into the earth or tend a new seedling."

The grey Ent was smiling broadly, and he looked very pleased. "We are much alike then," Mithtaur agreed, his eyes lighting up with the vision, as if he was seeing Celebrimbor's art as his own.

"I will make a point of someday showing you some of what we create," Celebrimbor replied.

"We should drink to these talents then," Treebeard said. "And what united we might bring to one another."

"I will not object to that!" Narvi praised.

"Aye. For we gather as artisans and we salute those who share our brotherly concerns. Let us drink to our gems and our jewels and the powers we deliver upon them. Such talents are not small. Let us drink to the healing done by such gifts and the healing that is to come in days ahead," the elf lord added.

"Here here!" Narvi chimed.

The greying Mithtaur smiled, "_Hoom_ then, _hmm-hoom_. Nothing you might ask would give me greater pleasure tofulfill than to offer you libation and whatever hospitality my wood can provide. My grove is your grove as we Ents might say. But _rum-hum_, please allow me to make some reparations. If you would make yourselves comfortable, I will return quickly."

Mithtaur turned away then, and Legolas watched him depart while Treebeard affirmed, "Mithtaur has done well here. He will make you very comfortable."

"He is an artist," Celebrimbor said. "We have common traits. He and I shall do well together in the years we will share here together, I think."

"_Hoooom hooooom._ I would agree. Ever since he lost his wife and maiden Entings, he has put himself wholly into his gardens. He is a nurturing soul -- always adopting creatures of the forest. You will find they are plentiful in these parts, so your people will want for little in their hunts," Lendglad added.

"But he is sad at heart," Treebeard added. "Your praise does him much good."

Legolas considered that. He had heard the tale of the Entwives, but he had never appreciated how deep such a wound might be. He only knew what an agony his heart felt in his longing for the sea. Was that pain akin? And if the sadness in this creature's heart mirrored his own, Legolas felt, should he meet Mithtaur again, he might be more sympathetic toward his plight.

Then again, the Mithtaur he had met was not like this one in the dream. Harmless though Lendglad professed him to be at present, something had occurred to cause the Ent his current oddities. That was, after all, what part of this tale was to tell.

Legolas turned as the last rays of sun parted the mountain peaks. His eyes strayed east as the first stars began to twinkle in the cobalt sky. The ascending silhouette of pines and cedars could be seen reflecting in the pool along with those pin dots of light. The water, subtly rippling and turning, made them shimmer as the light gave way to dark.

"Come, my friend. I have much I would show you," Celebrimbor was saying as he led Faeldaer down a stone path that led to the forested part that surrounded the lake. Legolas could guess that they were about to explore the area of this jutted plateau leveled out of the lands. He noted too that Faeldaer appeared distressed. Legolas then turned to see if the others would follow. He was eager to discover more about this place and what the elf lord and this other elf were about to say. It was an exceedingly beautiful place and he wanted to see it, and he thought there might be something of import that might be said between the two elves.

But to his disappointment, none of the three remaining appeared to follow. Narvi took a place on the rocks that crested over the lake as Treebeard and Sweettree came to stand as sentinels at his side. "I was thinking perhaps," Narvi said, "That my people might try again to find minerals elsewhere in these woods. Fangorn is a large place, and it might be that further south there is gold if we delve deep enough."

Treebeards voice rumbled a deep groan as he appeared to consider this, and Legolas heard objection there. "If there are caves and no excavation to take place, I have no objections, Master Dwarf. But if you are to delve, I must say no, for I would not have these lands cut open unless they were to split on their own."

"But there might be wealth to be found…" Narvi countered.

But Legolas paid no more heed to this bit of conversation. His eyes followed the trek of Celebrimbor and Faeldaer. Faeldaer seemed to be questioning something of the lord.

Legolas could hear the conversation between his three nearest companions, the talk of mining in these parts. Though such information might interest Gimli, Legolas had no interest in these details and he was a bit disappointed to think that the story would follow that course. He would rather know that of which the two elves spoke.

But this was Lendglad's tale, and the Ent could only provide what he knew from his own experience, so Legolas knew the story would focus on that, as it had in real history.

And yet, Legolas could hear the other two speak. Allowing his mind to drift with their direction, he wished himself there. And then he found something truly impossible occurring. He was! He was able to follow them!

How strange was this? He should not be able to do such a thing! And yet he could!

He was surprised and he could feel his brow furrowing as he tried to resolve this mystery to his mind. He put himself back in his mind to where he should be, not ending the dream, but simply assessing where everything might have occurred.

He realized his outward state then -- the part of him that lay yet in the tree branch with Gimli dozing beneath him -- and he came to know the sounds about him. Lendglad was speaking the words of his story still while the trees chorused in the background giving their details to paint it more fully. That was as it had been. But beyond that, there was another voice, soft and sad and distant. It had not been there before. Legolas recognized it as an Ent's song. So quiet was it in the hullabaloo of noises all around them that it was hard to pick out precisely. Yet Legolas' elven ears heard it. He could not make out the source precisely, but he came to see that it was only adding to Lendglad's story. Further, Lendglad appeared to be unaware of it.

Legolas faced a dilemma then. Should he wake and seek out the lone singer? Should he remain in his dreams and let this new teller unfold a different part of the tale? Or should he continue on with the path of the story as Lendglad would have it? Deciding any of the paths taken would lead to no harm, he chose the most alluring of them. He followed the new voice into tale, and that is where his mind went as he continued to dream.

TBC


	9. Secret Fate

**A/N:** Bear with me. I have a bit of rather important history that must discussed here if the story is to progress. I will do my best to keep it interesting.

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Eight: Secret Fate_

Falling back into the acute images of his reverie, Legolas found himself floating, stepping over the stairlike path to follow the course of the two elves before him. As he moved, he directed his eyes to the water. Somehow it seemed magical in the day's closing light. The lake sat on a plateau that flattened out from the hilly terrain on this northern side of the forest. At the center of the pool was a small island, surrounded by a copse of willows that drew their curtained shade of branch and leaf over their bodies. The size of it was misleading, the willows hiding much of their own with the curtain of their branches, but Legolas could measure the lake's width as at least a couple hundred meters in width, with the island taking up least a third, if not half of that.

But then he neared the two elves and he had little time to consider much of the landscape beyond. His mind focused upon them instead.

"Why do you question me? Have you not wondered my reasons for coming here?" Celebrimbor was asking Faeldaer.

"You had said it was for respite," Faeldaer replied. His voice carried hurt and Legolas watched Celebrimbor's brow furrow as if he were pondering such a reaction. Legolas wondered at it too, trying to discern what the relationship was between these two. He had come to believe them friends, but if Faeldaer did not know of their reasons to come, he wondered if there were secrets between them that Celebrimbor had not shared.

"Partly," the golden elf said after a pause. Then he cocked his head slightly, as if considering the full of an answer. His eyes narrowed as he said, "But surely you might have guessed there was more to this journey? Why would I bring my seneschal as escort if there was not business to attend?"

A tiny twitch turned the corner of Faeldaer's mouth. The elf looked taken aback, hurt. And with that reaction it was clear that this elf had thought -- perhaps hoped -- this trip into Fangorn was something more. Almost immediately though the expression was masked with a stoic gaze that Legolas knew to be typically Noldor. The elf's voice became smooth and unemotional. "But we did attend business, my lord," he said, "and I thought we were done. We met with the dwarves and discussed a profitable trade in Moria as well as sending emissaries to Lórinand (1) in the attempt to settle a truce with Galadriel."

"And you thought that was all we had to do, did you?"

"I can think of no trades to be made in Fangorn, and as you and the dwarf have already said, there is no profit in mining here. Why else might we come here if not for rest? Especially here to this exceptional garden," Faeldaer said, pointing out the landscape.

"Nay, we are not done," Celebrimbor said, and his manner was strange, as if he was torn by the business at hand, as well as withing to divulge something greater. And then the elf lord quickly changed the topic. "What do you think of the attempts I score in the truce with Lorien's lady?"

Faeldaer smirked. "I would not put out great hope, my lord. She is wily, that one. I see not why you would even try."

"Then you see it as I hope others do. I try to forge relations with her because I must, for appearances if nothing else. For the sake of all Arda, elves must be the least to bear grudges against one another," Celebrimbor said.

There was disdain in the lesser elf's voice then. "You know that she holds you to blame for the distance that lies between her and Celeborn, even if that distance be only in miles and not in heart."

"So it appears, Faeldaer. Yet Celeborn remains in Eregion despite her departure."

"She likely feels he is a prisoner," Faeldaer frowned.

"Let her believe it so, if it will help us. But you know as well as I that if he is that, he is an unshackled, uncelled prisoner," Celebrimbor chuckled with a nod.

Faeldaer narrowed his eyes as he spoke, puzzlement clearly written on his brow. "To be honest, I have not understood his reasons to remain, my lord. He is free to go whenever he so chooses it. He has a loving wife and a realm that is his to rule. Would he not give up on Eregion? It is clear that being a Sindar, his power among the smiths has always been limited. I would think he might fare better among the Silvans in Lórinand."

To this the elf lord's brow shot up. "Thus the truth comes forth -- this is part of why I bring you here. It is time I unveiled what is known, Faeldaer, for you will become a part of this, I think…I hope. So much rides upon my hopes." Celebrimbor paused there, as if afraid to say what he might next. But then he nodded to himself and he stood taller. Glancing at Faeldaer, he said, "Let us begin with Celeborn, for here is a truth. He stays in Eregion because I have asked him to remain."

Faeldaer expression was one of shock. "_What? _That cannot be! Why would he do this? We took the realm away from him. You jest with me surely!"

Celebrimbor's expression was solemn. "I am afraid I do not jest, Faeldaer." He grimaced then, "Ai, do not look at me as such. I am not mad! And the decision to stay in the city _has_ been his for lo these many hundreds of years. But in recent times, it has been I who asked him to stay and he remains now because of me. Further, Galadriel knows this."

"So she does have reason to mistrust!"

"So appearances would tell."

"Then he does not seek vengeance against us?"

"It may be that he did at first. The removal of his rank could not have been easy to live with, but Celeborn is a wiser elf than that. I think, knowing him now, he knew all along that such a thing would pass. I have learned that he was not blind to the direction of the city or the gain in the power of the guild began. I think in those years, after he was usurped, he was biding his time, waiting for something of import to happen. Of late though, he has come to act as a protector. Unknowingly, he has stood by, waiting to learn what was underfoot. He is wise beyond words, Faeldaer. Now I believe he and I see the same reason."

"What reason do you mean? Why do you say he acts as a protector? You speak in riddles, my lord."

"Forgive me, my friend. I have much I must tell. Let me just start by informing you that this mission is more than just one to negotiate with the dwarves."

"Does Narvi know that?" Faeldaer asked, nodding toward the dwarf on the ledge. It appeared a feeble joke on the seneschal's part, but Celebrimbor's face grew stern, as if he did not like the hint of mockery.

"Narvi knows everything," Celebrimbor replied sternly.

The other elf threw a disapproving glance at the dwarf and it was clear there was some resentment on his part. It also seemed obvious that this was not the first time he had laid a harsh word, in jest or not, toward the dwarf. But levelly he said, "Then perhaps it is time you shared some of what you know with _me_."

The elf lord sighed and nodded in agreement. "Aye, this is true." Celebrimbor then looked up, taking Faeldaer's arm as he spoke, but it was a gentle gesture. "Come sit with me. I wish to watch the stars as they light in the sky."

Faeldaer appeared embarrassed then. He looked down at the hand touching his upper arm, and his eyes grew strange. As if uttering a confession, he started to say, "Celebrimbor…? My lord…"

The other elf's eyes were soft then, and his expression was kind. Legolas suddenly felt he should not be there -- that he was somehow intruding. "What is it, my friend?"

"I thought perhaps your reasons for coming here were different. I truly did not see this journey as business."

The golden elf looked at Faeldaer and smiled. Indeed, Legolas could see there was a great deal of affection in the elf lord's gaze. "And what did you think?"

But Faeldaer seemed to pale then as the words seemed to stick in his throat. And then he shook his head. "... Ai, pay no heed to what I thought. The point remains; you have intent upon this place -- here in Fangorn. It has all but been said. I am sure I do not like finding out in this way, but I will believe you have reason for that as well. So now you must tell me the full of what is happening."

"What must happen is quite complicated. Let me say this though, Faeldaer, for I believe it will help you to understand all in the end. I need you now. I bring you here because I have a great task I must ask of you," the dark-eyed elf replied.

Legolas could see the Noldor's jaw tighten in this call of duty and he recognized his own sense of loyalty for that brief moment. "You know you have only to ask, my lord."

"Good. Then you must leave Eregion," Celebrimbor said bluntly.

"I must -- ? _Eregion? _But--but why?"

They stopped at a place where the valley was most visible between the framing trees, and they could look down over the plains. "A bench would be good here." Celebrimbor said as he bent and then sat upon the ground. Faeldaer hesitated, then made a place next to him. Celebrimbor gazed around them then and gestured to the lake. "It has no real name, you know. I have asked the Ents, but they have no simple words for this place. I thought therefore I might call it Mírnen.(2) What do you think?"

"I think it makes little difference what a pool in the Ent forest is called. It has nothing to do with what you tell me." Faeldaer said and his voice told of his distress.

"It has everything to do with what I tell you. It is to become your new home," the elf lord stated though his eyes were questioning.

Faeldaer looked as if he had been struck. "You banish me!" he cried.

"_Banish?_ Nay! I _save_ you," Celebrimbor said as if this reply were obvious.

"Save me? By sending me out into the wilds where I might be frozen or eaten?"

Celebrimbor laughed. "Ai, you sound so Noldor just now," the elf lord chuckled.

"I _am_ Noldor," Faeldaer replied with an exasperated sob. "I know nothing of living beyond the walls of a city!"

"You must come to think as a green elf then… because you must do this. It is within you should you seek it out, Faeldaer and I have need to ask that you do."

"I have yet to learn why I might wish such a thing!"

There was a very long pause, and Celebrimbor no longer looked at his friend. Instead, his eyes gazed down to where his fingers tangled in the grass. And then he spoke in a voice that was clear and calm. "I ask it because Eregion is going to be destroyed."

These were shocking words and Legolas listened in wonder. How was it that Celebrimbor knew what was to come? The Mirkwood elf knew as much as there was to tell of Hollin's history for he had studied the city and then later its battle plans back in his novice years and he could easily recall that Celeborn had indeed remained in Eregion, despite being usurped as its leader. All that they said so far was true. Why Celeborn did not leave Eregion the history books never painted, and Legolas had never found the nerve to ask such a presumptuous question. But it was also true that the present-day lord of Lothlorien had lead the charge against Sauron's army in that named war in the year1696 II. He also knew that Celeborn had failed to keep Sauron away from the city walls, and that the elf lord's army had been forced into retreat, fighting a losing battle until Elrond's forces joined him. Together they had fought back. But by the time they had retaken the city, it was too late; all was decimated. All the members of the Guild that had lived there were dead, and Celebrimbor's body had been found as a tortured and torn. He had died at Sauron's hand and his body had been mounted upon a pike, used as the enemy's standard while they had dominated the city.

All of that was how the history books told the outcome of the making of the Rings. What history did not tell was how Fangorn Forest, or this elf, Faeldaer, fit into Celebrimbor's fate.

The elf lord was speaking. "A threat is looming. There is danger, Faeldaer. I have seen what is to come."

Faeldaer's face distorted into one of confusion. "Do you mean your dreams? But my lord…" And then he swallowed and changed his tone as if he realized the fear in his voice. "You told me they were nothing, a family trait and very rarely true. Do they plague you still? And if so, why should we come to believe them."

"I spoke false. Of late, they have come to concern me greatly and I cannot completely ignore them. I do not wish to make you fearful of something that has not passed, but I know I have made a mistake. I trusted too well, and now I will pay for that error," Celebrimbor said.

"Tell me what you know," Faeldaer said in a voice that did little to disguise his fear despite his previous attempt to do so.

"It is always the same. In the dream the city will fall to ruin all about me. The people will flee in terror, and many will die in their attempt to be free."

"But why --?"

"Because there is one who wants what I have made."

"_One?_ Who? What you have _made_?"

Celebrimbor sighed. "It is complicated but it comes to this... The Rings. Together we have forged many, Faeldaer. But the very last of them have been created recently, and by my hand. No others were involved. They are very different from the rest."

"You have said nothing of other rings to me, Celebrimbor," the lesser elf innocently commented.

"That is because they were meant to be secret. They are untainted and… they are very strong."

"You have made many jewels, Celebrimbor," Faeldaer said, sounding uncertain as to why this made them any better.

"These are _different_. They were made for our Cause."

Faeldaer's brow furrowed. "To improve this Middle-earth, you mean? Like the Rings forged with Annatar?"

There was a long pause, and then Celebrimbor replied, "Stronger yet."

But Faeldaer was yet to understand what Celebrimbor was saying. "Yet if they are for the good, why would you think they are being sought?"

"When we started this--" Celebrimbor began, then stopped, collecting himself. It appeared he was attempting to hold back some rather deep emotions. In a calmer voice he began again. "When the Guild began, our Cause was simple. You know of it. We wished only to spread our gift over these lands, to bring the Light of Aman into Arda."

"I know our history," Faeldaer replied.

"How many nights did we plan and speak and pray the Valar for guidance? Many of us forsook our kin that we might do this deed. Do you remember? Do you remember how I parted from my father, denying his claim on family loyalty?"

"I do."

"In those days, it was laughable what we presumed. So much was destroyed when the kinslayers brought their ruin for the sake of gems. But it was greed that drove _them_. Still, given that, given that lesson, how could anyone embrace the Cause we stood for?"

"But others did, my lord. They came and they joined us."

"Jewelcraft was our skill, and we were great, Faeldaer. We are still great. We could work magic into that art. And we were fools as a result. How drunk we were in our glory!"

"Why do you say this?"

"Because we ruined what might have been greatest of our achievements. Do you remember how we began? Galadriel and Celeborn believed in our Cause. They took us in. They did not disparage us, and we were given a home in their new city."

"That is because they came to realize that we wanted only good. We showed that not all stones wrought need set their beholders to greed."

"That is what we attempted. And when we set to task on the forging of the many Rings, that was our desire. You know this. I need not say it but to assure myself as well. They were wrought on our part with no intention of greed."

"So it was, my lord," Faeldaer said. He looked distressed, but it appeared he was willing to let Celebrimbor reveal what he would.

"No, it was not… We failed. We should never have overtaken the place of Galadriel and Celeborn as the rightful leaders of Eregion. It was wrong of us. We acted traitorously. We acted as kinslayers might!"

"How can you say that?"

"How can I not? We overthrew them!"

"We did not harm them! They were on the verge of stopping our work with the Rings!"

"Rightfully so! They should have! They were right! They saw how The Rings were being manipulated against their Cause. They should never have been made and Galadriel and Celeborn foresaw the doom created by them in the end."

"You do not mean that!"

"We never should have set the uprise against them! But we were coerced, manipulated as well. I see that now just as I see that the Rings are flawed, Faeldaer."

"Ai… nay! It is not true! They are perfectly made. It is fine craft!"

"As a guild, our words were pledged in solemn oath. We stood witness to one another, and by the Valar, I _know_ They were witness to what we said. Do you remember the words, Faeldaer? Do you recall what we pledged?"

"I know the words, my lord." The darker elf's brown eyes glistened as he recited the pledge, "_Never shall we betray this good Earth. Never shall we forge for personal glory. Never shall we seek power through our craft. Never shall we hurt those we might help. Here stand we united in these duties. Here stand we gaining only through our service to Arda. And we shall remain, brethren always to this Cause. May the Valar guide us in this. By their Grace will we succeed."_

There were tears in Celebrimbor's eyes. He ducked his head, nodding. "You remember then." He paused. "I am glad." Then swallowing, he gazed up again at the other, and his voice became firmer. "With each that came into the guild, that pledge was renewed. I thought it only made us stronger. I saw it as proof of loyalty. I came to believe I could trust any who swore that oath."

Faeldaer quietly said, "Tell me what has happened."

"We were betrayed."

Faeldaer said nothing but his eyes were wide with obvious shock.

"Our words were twisted and perverted and made as they were never meant to be. In the end, we _did_ forge for glory and we _did_ seek out power in our craft. We _did_ hurt others, and we _did_ betray the Earth. It shall suffer greatest what we have done and for how we have maimed the stone and metal we were gifted and I committed the greatest harm with these last Rings. War will come because of them. We are criminal, Faeldaer, and we did not even realize we were being manipulated into the harms we caused."

"By who?" the other elf asked, shaking his head in denial.

"Annatar," Celebrimbor answered quietly. His eyes were fixed on Faeldaer, as if to gauge his reaction.

"_Annatar?_ … No!"

"Listen to me, Faeldaer--"

"No! Not Annatar! Why think him? He has been eternally faithful! What makes you think it is not -- Narvi. He too swore the oath."

"It is not Narvi."

"It could be! It could be! You tell me to cease my distrust, yet I have watched this dwarf leech off you for years. The oath is wasted on him! He desires only the treasures you have access to and the means of gaining from your talents."

"It is not Narvi."

"And yet this _emissary of the Valar_ -- this _friend_, this god in a _man's guise,_ who comes only to help us, to empower us, to make our skills that much richer -- is the one you accuse of being a traitor? He has nothing to gain from his association with us -- only our friendship. He has asked naught in payment and has been a truer friend to us both than any other I can think of. And you now suspect _him _of … of what? Of being your future murderer?"

Celebrimbor bowed his head. "It is true; I saw him in my dreams."

"Your dreams! No, I will not believe it! Annatar has given selflessly, for hundreds of years now. He has shown generosity and kindness and abiding concern for this Middle-earth. He is a true champion to our Cause. I will not let you think him a _betrayer_! Nay! Nay, I tell you! The dreams lie," Faeldaer cried as he jumped to his feet.

"Faeldaer--" Celebrimbor said, immediately leaping up and following in Faeldaer's path.

"No, my lord! I will do as you command. Order me to part my home and I will. Tell me to clothe myself in bramble and wild ivies and I will. But ask me to forsake my friends and I tell you, _I will not_. You yourself said I should not fear visions that have not come to pass, and I will take you at your word! I do not fear your visions for I do not believe in them!"

"Faeldaer, you will listen to me!"

"Why? So I might hear more disparaging words of a friend _I_ hold dear? He is a colleague, Celebrimbor! A member of the Guild! I trust him as I would trust you!" the elf cried.

"I could order you!" Celebrimbor threatened, and Faeldaer stopped where he stood. He glared hotly at his companion. But having the other elf's attention, the Hollin lord softened his voice slightly though the fury was still there, "I could order you to do as I say, but I cannot command your loyalty, Faeldaer, or your trust. Either you love me or you do not! I cannot make you feel what you do not feel."

"But I do love you, Celebrimbor," Faeldaer sobbed and Legolas perceived there was more great depth at the heart of that phrase. Tears glistened in Faeldaer's eyes and Legolas felt his own eyes sting in sympathy. The scene was an emotional one. "I do love you, my lord. More than…" He stopped short, as if afraid to utter the full truth. Instead he said, "How can you even question that?"

"It is you who questions me," Celebrimbor said. His voice was stern, as if he were reprimanding the other.

The other elf met his gaze then, but that Noldor mask was back in place and Legolas had to admire how well this elf could hide his true self. Then slowly Faeldaer lowered his head, as if he could not meet the eyes of the other any longer. "I am sorry," he whispered. There was familiarity in that emotional reply for Legolas. He had stood in this other elf's shoes before.

Celebrimbor sighed, then put his hand to Faeldaer's forearm in a gesture that displayed sincerity and compassion and Legolas was brought back to the moment. "This is not easy. I do not wish this. But I know it is Annatar who has betrayed the work we did. Please, Faeldaer, I share the same feelings for Annatar as you. He has been true. He has been a confidante. It breaks my heart to believe this true…"

"This is Thranduil's fault!" Faeldaer lashed out.

Legolas nearly blinked himself out of his reverie with that accusation. To hear his sire's name used as a part of this tale was the last thing he could have expected! Somehow, the words stabbed at him and he found himself both shocked and suddenly quite angry, as if his own sympathy was betrayed. And then he tried to reason where such a comment might come from. Although he had known that Oropher and Thranduil had traveled through Eregion ere they reached Greenwood in days long past, he knew little beyond that. (3) Should he disbelieve the harsh words? What part might Thranduil -- of all elves -- play in this ordeal? But then, as if trying to find reason to dismiss this, he decided that his king's name might be no more than just a mention in the narrative.

Celebrimbor said nearly the same. "Nay, blame not Thranduil, or any others, for this. That youngling only did as I asked him to do," the lord excused, and Legolas felt suddenly grateful to him for saying it so.

"Had he not --"

"Enough foisting blame, Faeldaer! It is done! And I will not look back lest I wish to flog myself for my own part in this!" Celebrimbor said as took the other by the shoulders. The full truth was then revealed. "Annatar is not as we know him to be! He is evil! He is Sauron!"

"Sauron! _Sauron?_ The Maia apprentice of Morgoth? But does not rumor say He was--"

"He was to have faced judgment before the Valar, but He hid himself and refused their demand that He be seen!"

"Sauron?...No! No! We have sealed our own fates!"

"He knows much of us, that is true, but I do not believe we are without recourse! I have a plan, Faeldaer! Please, hear me out!"

Faeldaer turned away, his face dimmed in shadow. "No! First you will tell me of these Rings!"

"I dare say little, for I know now that even these are not safe. I will say this though; all but the Rings I have made are tainted. The Others were made with the instrument of Sauron's desire and greed."

"This has to be wrong!"

"I wish it were so, but it is true!"

Faeldaer dipped his head as if choking back tears. "When within Moria, Durin thanked me again for his Ring and told me that he has found only good. It has brought them profit." Glancing at the other, the elf asked, "How can that be wrong? Already they have uncovered a vein of mithril that is huge and runs quite deep."

"The Rings were not meant to delve for riches. They were not meant as a means for gaining power. They were made to preserve what the Valar gave us and to erase the evil laid by Morgoth. Death will come because of the greed wrought in Them." Then before another question could be asked, Celebrimbor stated, "I have sent missives to all who hold those other Rings. I have urged that they remove Them. I said the same to Durin in this journey and several times before but the greed is already laid. Still, I trust him. And I have had correspondence from a few others. They say they have seen the same vision as I. It is not in my mind alone, Faeldaer! They have expressed the same fears!"

"What do they see? Is it the same as you?"

"They see the fall of Eregion. They see countless battles and many deaths. They see Annatar. He is at the fore of all. Except he is not Annatar. He is darkness. None have been able to see his true guise yet except me."

"Do you think any will believe your claim that he is Sauron?"

"Celeborn does. Galadriel does. Their support is gladly mine and I am grateful to them, especially since…. But the lords of Mithlond have yet to hear me. I am hoping Galadriel can help persuade them."

Faeldaer shook his head and then asked, "What do you mean then? You negotiate with Galadriel?"

"It has been our secret. We put up false pretence of hostilities but it is not real. It is time that you know."

"No! She is cunning! Such loyalty comes with a price!"

The elf lord nodded in confirmation. "Yes it does, but I think her fee a fair one."

"Tell me what you think comes of this then."

"Beyond the Others made, there are three Rings, and They are unlike the Others. For one thing, They were made to be held by the elves alone. My hope has always been that They will be used for the good in them. They hold much grace."

"What do they do?"

"They were wrought so that They might have influence over the sun and the air and the water. And They are free of the greed Sauron would put upon Them. He cannot drive Them to evil as he can the others."

Faeldaer's expression seemed to lighten then. "If that is so, need we fear Him? Can we not use these Rings to counter his skills?"

Celebrimbor voiced this added concern, "Unfortunately, what I have made is not enough. He has made a Ring of his own."

"It cannot be greater than what you have made," Faeldaer said with a weak smile of assurance, but it was more question than comment.

"I fear you are wrong. His Ring has a power I did not teach him."

"That cannot be," the seneschal objected, gasping. "I still cannot believe it true! Annatar…"

"I am certain of what I saw! Believe me or do not!" the elf lord countered harshly. "He has power I had no knowledge of. It is a dreadful fact; he knows so much of us, and by my own revelations."

"He was our friend, Celebrimbor!"

"So I thought. Truly I thought it. And I will confess to you that I do not understand his deceptions. What profit is there in gaining control over the many Rings? He made Them, after all. He made Them! And he claimed to want the better good of the world. Is that not what he told Eönwë when he begged forgiveness of the Valar? But he fooled me into letting him see into the Guild…I made this thing happen. Cirdan has not been fooled by him. Nor has Gil-galad, Elrond or Galadriel," Celebrimbor continued almost as if uttering a curse. "They would not receive him. Somehow they saw through his ploy! How I was duped!"

"You are not fully to blame. Galadriel did not know, for if she did she never would have allowed him to dwell in Eregion as long as she did."

"I suppose."

"She is to blame as well."

"Nay, nay. I will stop this reproach. None shall be held to this," Celebrimbor said, and once again the strong elf lord stood at the center of this scene.

Faeldaer seemed so small by comparison. And then a desperate question came. "My lord, does Annatar … _Sauron_… know what you have made? Does he know of these Rings you have crafted?"

The Noldor lord's eyes became hard. "Yes," he slowly said. "Yes, He saw me, Faeldaer. With his Ring He was able to see me. That is why He will pursue the other Rings through me. He will be coming to find me in the city."

"What will you do then? What do you think his intent?"

"He means to take what I have made and give Them to those He can manipulate." For the first time since this conversation started though, the elf lord smiled. "Ironic, is it not? There have been so many times in our people's past when we have fought wars over gems. But I think we have learned our lessons. Yes, I do! Sauron will not succeed in this one, for I will disburse the Three before He can find them."

"You have not given them bearers yet?"

"Not yet, but soon. It is a huge burden I put upon those who would take Them."

A long silence fell and Legolas felt a nervous anxiety fall over the scene. "Would you give One to me?" Faeldaer asked, and Legolas felt a sick feeling in his stomach with this question.

Celebrimbor paused before replying. "I have … I cannot say that I have not thought of that."

There was another minute of uneasy silence, and then came Faeldaer's words. "And?"

"I have yet to hear from the ones who would be a part of my plan, but my intent was not to give One to you. For a time, in passing, I thought it might come, but never with any permanency."

"I -- I do not understand. What do you mean _for a time?_ "

"Sauron will seek the Rings out. Of this I am certain. He will pursue me. He will begin amassing an army, and He will use it to conquer all. He will attack Eregion. That was in my dream and that is where Celeborn and I have developed a plan. He has agreed to command the armies protecting the city. He will serve to mislead Annatar, to have him believe the Rings remain with me."

"You would use yourself as a decoy?" Faeldaer guessed.

"Aye. But in truth one of the Rings will be with you. The other Two will be with … others."

"And together we will mount an army of our own and attack from the rear!" Faeldaer exclaimed, jumping ahead.

"Nay, my friend. Not quite," Celebrimbor said, placing a hand upon the shoulder of his second. "I do not want you involved in this war. Please hear me, for this is most important. You cannot use your Ring. You cannot even make yourself visible with It."

"But the Rings are powerful. You said so yourself. If we use Them together, we could--"

"You cannot wield It! Not even with the other Two. Not while the One Ring of Sauron is worn!"

"So you should die as a sacrifice to your city?"

"I have no plans to die, Faeldaer! I have plans to assume my lordship here when all is done. Already the task is underway. Listen. What will happen is this: I will give you one of the Rings and you will keep it hidden. The others I choose will do the same. Sauron will search, but he will not find them so long as they are not wielded. He will come to Eregion, believing they are with me. He will try to wring the truth from me. But here is where He will fail: He will not suspect that Celeborn would be there to fight for the city that cast him aside. Is it not perfect? Lord Celeborn would be the last one Sauron would think to round an army in Eregion's defense. As Annatar he knew I was not a military might. Sauron will think me weak and susceptible to his forces."

"And in the meantime…?"

"Our people, the other smiths, will slowly leave Eregion. I say slowly so that their whereabouts will not be suspect. They will come here, to the home you make for them, though others will think they go to other realms."

"Will there be no spies to realize where they go? Will none think it odd that _I_ have disappeared into this forest?" Faeldaer asked.

"None will know that you or the others come to this forest. We will tell them you leave for Lórien, and too also for the others. It will be part of our 'mythical' negotiations."

Faeldaer snorted his disapproval. "Nay, that cannot be said. Anyone who knows me would wonder why would I settle where Galadriel lives? There is no love between she and I."

"Oropher's realm then. You and Thranduil became rather close in the time he spent as Celeborn's aide in Ost-in-Edhil courts," Celebrimbor offered. Legolas started at this pronouncement. He had not expected Thranduil's name to be mentioned again. Further, he knew nothing of a time his father might have spent in Celeborn's court. (3) But he did not have time to spend dwelling on this as Celebrimbor went on. "As for our people, they will part in small numbers. They will leave our city slowly."

"How long will it take?"

"Celeborn and I could not say for certain, but we have reasoned that it would take some time to raise an army of the size needed to attack an elven realm. Sauron has used his ruse to ally himself with men. And the populace of men is not so great since the War of Wrath and the Flood that followed after. Though it would seem quick in our minds, a hundred years or two might pass before Sauron has bred enough men and corrupted their souls to build an adequate force."

"But what if…what if He follows Morgoth's path? What if He recruits darker powers? Orcs can breed in half the time of men. And Trolls can be as powerful as twenty times their number in mortal bodies."

"Trolls would not serve above ground. And all the Orcs were destroyed in the Great Flood. Nay, Sixteen hundred and more revolutions of Anar have passed into this Second Age, and none of Morgoth's minions has been seen since the Valar rose. So we must believe Sauron uses Men. Knowing that, we feel we will need to be ready in a century's passing."

Legolas, in hearing this, knew Celebrimbor underestimated and he suddenly felt panicked. The plan was feasible except for this. According to history, If this was around the year 1600 of the Second Age, then he knew that Sauron attacked Eregion sooner than a century from the date, and He did use Orcs. He prayed he was hearing Celebrimbor's pronouncement incorrectly, but he knew it to be true. The elf lord's assessments would be wrong and Legolas wished then he could warn the dream-world elf of what was to come.

But Faeldaer said as he thought, and he felt gladdened that the elf thought with a more realistic mind. "You assume much, Celebrimbor. I think you need to be ready now. Why not just flee or attack on your own?"

"What would I attack? I know not where He hides. Further I would only be making my city vulnerable. Nay, it must be Sauron to make the first move. And I know He will. He will not be dissuaded from obtaining the Rings."

"Destroy Them then!" Faeldaer exclaimed, and Legolas thought the same.

"I have not the heart," the elf lord sadly said and Legolas felt disappointment at the foolishness of this reply. "Can you not see this is how I might redeem what has been done? If we can win, so much will be to the good. Without these Three, the Others would set ruin upon this earth. And with these Three, we might right the harm Sauron put into the making of the Others."

"Nay! We must destroy Them all. That is how we must fight this! Do you not see what will occur otherwise? By making these Three Rings, you have brought on your own death, Celebrimbor!"

"I wanted to create the good we had meant to do. I meant to fulfill our goal! I still mean to do that!" the elf lord defended, and Legolas could see the desire in the great elf's eyes. He realized then that all talk of the benefit of the Rings to others -- striking out against greed and power -- was for naught, for those ugly traits existed in Celebrimbor, even if he would deny it. Legolas felt sudden disappointment, for of course what Faeldaer proposed was the better thing to do. How much blood would there be shed over the Rings? He knew the outcome of Celebrimbor's greed and he knew Faeldaer's counsel was better. What use would Sauron have for the One Ring if there were no Others to rule over? If Celebrimbor would only reclaim the Rings now, _all of them_, before Sauron had a chance to disburse them where He wanted, then none of the evil history presented would come to be. The Nazgul would not have existed if their Rings had been destroyed. Moria would not have been over-mined had the dwarf Rings been taken.

But then, the Three had given power and protection to Others, and they had been salvation against Sauron's evil, even if they had not truly been _used_ to their potential.

Still, this was the path of destruction. Celebrimbor's desire to be a positive influence on Arda's behalf was selfish, and history would not paint his part as good. Legolas decided then that the elf lord was blind to what he was doing, just the same as Legolas' own father was blind to what his ineptitude had done to the Greenwood realm.

"These Rings will be your own end!" Faeldaer shot back, and Legolas wanted to echo the sentiment. Celebrimbor should listen to his adviser.

"If it means my own end, so be it! It is for the good of Arda," Celebrimbor answered, pushing the wisdom of the other aside.

"No! I will not allow it! We must prevent it! You must hide, my lord! That is the only way!" Faeldaer cried.

"I will not hide," Celebrimbor said stubbornly.

The lesser elf's voice quaked with rage or fear. "Tell me this then, for I need to hear something that makes sense of the sacrifices you are proposing! When Sauron is defeated in battle, will you come here? Will the power of the Ring you leave in my care help us."

"Nay, that is not my plan."

"Then what? What do you wish of me?"

"When the time is right, you will give the Ring you hold to Galadriel."

"Galadriel? _Galadriel?_" Faeldaer spit the word out. "Why her?"

"It is the price for her part in this," the elf lord said.

"Her part? She plays no part!"

Celebrimbor looked at the other and frowned. "Surely you do no believe Celeborn does this from the goodness of his heart? Why should he? We usurped him his role as the ruler of Eregion."

"But to give Galadriel a Ring as payment? What might she do with such a gift? Why would you think she would not abuse what you give? You say Arda will suffer for the Rings, and yet these are the greater. With her greed, what can keep her from marring all?"

"I think you presume too much of her, Faeldaer! I will give Galadriel a Ring as price for playing a power to defeat Sauron. She takes a great military risk for the sake of being our people's protector."

"I am lost. Your words are a mystery to me!"

"I begin negotiations with her. You know this. But the truth is we began talking a decade ago when I realized Sauron's designs."

"You--you--? But how? When?"

"Narvi arranged our meetings in Moria realm."

"So the dwarves _know_?"

"They do. But Sauron does not."

"You entrust _Narvi_ before you entrust _me_?"

"It was not meant as a slight. I just knew he could act the middle role between us."

"But I am your seneschal! I should have been your choice first!"

"Pettiness is not flattering upon you, Faeldaer! Narvi accepted what I've told him without qualm. He has not pressed me for more!" Celebrimbor answered.

"Then he shows you what a dolt he is for not questioning you, my lord! Why you would trust that stunted creature with news as this I cannot--"

"Cease such words, Faeldaer! I am exhausted by your reproaches!" And Legolas had to agree. As much as he knew of the hostilities left to history of elf and dwarf relations, he also knew that the elves of Hollin were friendly with the Moria dwarves. This disdain Faeldaer showed seemed much out of place for his people. "What has come of you that you continuously disparage Narvi? Never has it been until recent years and I will allow it no more! Narvi requires nothing more of me because he understands the danger I present. I say to you now that you are my second, the steward of my house, and you have been a friend to me for years longer than you have held that post. I confide in you as I do no other. Just know of this place. I intend to make a move for our people here," Celebrimbor replied, turning away to look at the darkening sky.

Faeldaer's eyes darkened with despair, "And what if I do not choose this?"

"It did not occur to me that you would decline. Over the years you have had ambitions, I know," the elf lord replied.

"My ambitions seem dim in the light of what you say will come."

"Someone must take command here, but it cannot be me. Not yet. I must keep up my part of the deception in Eregion. But Fangorn welcomes our people. The Ents offer us refuge that none will suspect. And none dare come here because of the mystery of the Ents."

"How can we know eyes are not watching now?"

"This is the last time I come here, Faeldaer. If Annatar has spies watching my actions, He will think no more of it in days to come. He will instead see me pursuing Galadriel. And He will believe He has time yet to build His armies because He knows that her forgiveness will not come easy. He will not know she builds her own army now as a means of defense against His, nor that Celeborn does the same in Eregion. I will help her by allowing rumors of our feud to remain."

"And what good will that be?"

"Sauron will believe I either still hold a Ring or that we have found forgiveness and I have given It to her. He will pursue either one or the other of us."

"So if Sauron attacks her, Celeborn will come from the rear -- or through the mountain -- and attack. And if Sauron attacks you, Galadriel will take on the rear guard while Celeborn guards the front."

"Now you see our strategy."

"And the Ring I am to hold?"

"Depending on who is attacked and sends message, you will bring the Ring to the other. Either Galadriel will have It, or I will."

"What good is It though? You say It should not be worn," Faeldaer argued.

"It may not be, but the keeper's strength and resources will be fortified by Its presence all the same," Celebrimbor said. "In giving It, this realm will be enhanced. It will aid you as you build here."

"Will it be enough? What if I were to --?"

"I know what you would say and I beg you to cease your persistence now! The Ring cannot be used! Do not make me regret my choice! What I have made… these Rings…They have a power that is not to be so easily dismissed. Those who would hold Them might fall under a spell all their own. "

"And what payment is there for me? I get nothing as my reward!"

"Dare you act so selfishly now? Is it so great a sacrifice to see your people saved?"

"No!…No, it is not! I love our people. But…" Faeldaer broke off.

"I am giving you rule here."

"Rule of this fief would mean nothing to me if you were to pass into the unknown without me, my lord."

"Faeldaer…" the elf lord stepped forward, but the brown-eyed elf backed away.

"Nay, speak no words. I wish nothing said unless meant with sincerity."

"Faeldaer …" Celebrimbor began again.

"Why bring me here?" Faeldaer then raged. "Why tell me this?"

"Because I need your help." Celebrimbor gazed deeply into the eyes of the other. "Lead our people. That is what I want from you."

But suddenly, the darker elf turned and asked in a rush, "Who then? Who do you gift the other Gems to? Do you plan such complex duplicities with them too?"

Celebrimbor frowned, "Even you, Faeldaer, I dare not tell. At least not now. I foresee danger in this, and I think it best I kept silent on the matter until I know more."

Faeldaer shivered. "You are frightening me, Celebrimbor."

Celebrimbor laid a hand upon the elf's shoulder. "Just promise me you will help me, Faeldaer. Promise me you will do as I ask."

"What you ask is --"

"I entrust this to you. I put my faith in you. Please, Faeldaer, promise me. Promise me."

Faeldaer bowed his head, and at last he answered. "You have my promise, my lord. I will do anything you ask of me."

"Thank you, my friend. Thank you for that."

And to this Faeldaer turned his eyes to the sky and Legolas' eyes followed. The stars now shone brightly and he let his eyes come to rest there as they slowly moved across the sky. Time passed. It passed and the moment faded away. And with awareness again of his own place in time, Legolas knew that Celebrimbor's plan had failed. At least in part. The three elven rings had found homes, as Legolas had learned when traveling with Galadriel's entourage on their departure from Minas Tirith. But Celebrimbor had not managed his escape. That is where the elf lord had erred. All had perished in the siege upon Eregion, (4) Or almost all. Now there were questions in Legolas' mind as to the fate of this other elf, Faeldaer, and the elves of jewellers' guild.

This glimpse into the past was merely a tease. It made Legolas wish to know more. His curiosity embarrassed him, for Legolas felt he was intruding on a private affair. This story was one not told in the annals of history and he amused himself by thinking how could he not wish to know more.

Besides, there was still the point of Mithtaur's madness to address, and Legolas had yet to learn the reason for it. And now there was a new truth to pursue. His father's name had been mentioned in an accomplice's role, and Legolas would learn that as well. He would continue to pursue this mystery.

TBC

**Author Notes:**

(1) Lórinand is the Nandorin name given to Lothlorien in the Second Age as recorded in "Unfinished Tales," by J.R.R. Tolkien with Christopher Tolkien, It is chronicled in the _History of Galadriel and Celeborn_, of that book. I have also referred to that realm in this chapter as Lórien in keeping with the Noldor tradition.

(2) Mírnen translates to mean "Jewel Lake". It seemed appropriate given how Celebrimbor was describing his craft in the previous chapter.

(3) The fact that Legolas knows nothing about Thranduil serving in Celeborn's courts should not be seen as all that odd. He doesn't know because Tolkien never wrote such a thing. Thranduil and Oropher's journeys have not been told in any of the compiled histories of Middle-Earth, Tolkien tells us in one of his essays (see "Unfinished Tales" as noted above) that the two were originally from Doriath. He says nothing about their journey eastward to Greenwood. This story is contrived by my own imaginings. As such, I have constructed that, for a time, Thranduil served in Celeborn's courts in Eregion before passing over the mountains. I'll tell you more about that later.

(4) Just to keep everyone from running to their nearest copies of all the canon backlogs, I will give a brief timeline here, highlighting the key points that led up to the fall of Eregion. As this story goes on, I will add events of my own into this mix.

Around 750SA, Galadriel and Celeborn establish the city of Eregion (Ost-in-Edhil).

Around 1200SA, Sauron, in the guise of Annatar, comes to Eregion with the intent of seducing the elves. He poses himself as an emissary of the Valar sent to them to help further their cause.

Around 1350-1400 SA, Sauron convinces the Gwaith-i-Mírdain (People of the Jewel-Smiths -- the guild Celebrimbor refers to in this chapter) to revolt against the leadership of Galadriel and Celeborn. Celebrimbor is appointed their leader. Around the same time, Galadriel parts for Lórinand, establishing it as her new home. She takes Celebrian (and supposedly Amroth -- future lord of Lothlorien) with her.

Around 1500 SA, the Mírdain begins work on the many Rings of Power. Around the same time, Annatar, having taught/learned these skills and having shared in their making, leaves Eregion.

Around 1590 SA, Celebrimbor finishes making the Three Rings, which he has conceived of alone.

Around 1600 SA, Annatar/Sauron completes the making of the One Ring. In putting on the Ring, Celebrimbor realizes him and the elves who hold the others remove their rings.

1695-1697 SA, Sauron attacks the lands of Eriador and marches for Eregion. Celeborn attacks and, for a time is overcome, but with the help of Elrond, he drives back Sauron's forces. Regardless, Sauron takes Eregion and lays the city to waste. Celebrimbor is killed. His body is hung from a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, and he is made to be the banner of Sauron's dark will. But the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm and the Elves of Lórinand, led by Amroth, attack Sauron from the rear. Sauron turns upon the Dwarves and Elves of Lórinand, and they are forced into retreat.

1697-1699 SA, Sauron ravages the lands of Eriador and overtakes it. He marches onto Lindon but is surprised there by the help the Elves are given by Numenorean forces who have been building armies to fight Sauron's evil. In retreat, Sauron is attacked again at the rear by more Numenorean forces. Sauron escapes, but his army is defeated.


	10. Nightmare

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Nine: Nightmare_

Lying in that fringe world between wakefulness and sleep, Legolas turned his mind away from the dream, focusing for a moment on the distant voice of the Ent. He could easily find himself awake at any time if he so chose, but he did not wish it. He knew this voice belonged to Mithtaur, but again he wondered how the Ent knew what occurred between Celebrimbor and Faeldaer when he had not been present to hear them. But this was a question he had to postpone. His curiosity was too great to pose it now. He wanted the dream to go on.

But in his wakeful moment he noticed that the song was changing. It was not sung in the pleasant way it had been before. There was dread and pessimism in it. Still, he allowed it to carry him away.

The first thing Legolas noticed when he reached the newest reverie scene was the permeating heat. Liquid and heavy, the air did not move and it put a sluggish gloom over the elf's mood. He immediately sensed a sickly ache falling behind his eyes. Even though he did not live in this reality, he could feel that a storm was brewing.

It was dark where he was, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. In the dim scene, tears and cries of fear echoed in the background behind him.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

The earth was trembling under these shuddering sounds. It was as if the heavy steps of a mumakil were causing the vibrations. Dark lightning etched a line across the sky and another boom rumbled -- thunder.

And then the scene became even more real as he realized he was standing beside Faeldaer. Looking fatigued and wary, there was something greater changed in the elf. No longer did the seneschal seem a frail elf. There was something different about the elf's eyes now. There was hatred and a hard, cold malice within them that had not been there before. There was fear too, but the stern Noldor mask Legolas had seen before hid it well.

And then Legolas' eyes took more in as if these details were now being sung with the Ent song. He and Faeldaer were standing on that high perch where they had first glimpsed Mírnen. The elf was looking out to the darkening plains and Legolas let his eyes travel to where Faeldaer's did. In the unnatural darkness he saw myriad torches marking the position of a traveling front over the flat lands.

Legolas knew what this was. He had lived it himself. It was an army. It was war.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

He could tell too by looking at the distant plains that it was yet day. But the sun was obstructed and the clouds above were so thick overhead that it might as well have been night. Dread momentarily overcame Legolas as he watched the flames flicker and glow in the thickening air. The scene before him was much like Helm's Deep.

But how he had jumped from a scene of worrisome peace and into this moment of eclipsing doom he could not deduce. It mattered not. The scene was alive and he knew it lived in the tale he was being told. That there had been no preamble mattered little, for his mind took the song and painted the event regardless.

And then he recovered himself enough that he could fall into his tried skills as a warrior. His trained eyes counted the number in the army marching forward. He could see there were hundreds before them and more behind. They were coming from the eastern side of the wood, and he could assess that they had traveled along the southern edge. He looked to the mountains in the west and wondered if these men had taken position there too. That would be a harder location from which to attack, though more advantageous for a good captain. But he also knew the trees created a barrier to any advances, and he doubted any men would have infiltrated that point. In fact, entering the woods would be dangerous for any if they knew the power of the trees. If there were any enemies on the western side, they would be watching for flight, not attempting to enter, and it was with that realization that Legolas came to see that was the purpose of the forces. They had come to snare those in the wood. The growing forces had come to trap those who lived within and force them to leave by the mountain route.

Legolas' eyes then turned to Faeldaer, and he watched to see what the elf might know and what decision might be made. The elf did not move. He was as the air, still and unmoving. He stared at the army and did not break his gaze, even as Narvi approached.

"They should not know we are here," the dwarf said. His voice hung in the air.

That sentiment was Legolas' too. If this was the time after the attack on Eriador as he assumed, the forces surrounding the forest should not have known of the Elves' presence in Fangorn. History said that they attacked Lothlorien next. The elves kept in hiding should have remained within relative safety. But as he looked at the forces that faced the forest walls, he knew this was not true. Their intentions were upon Fangorn, not elsewhere -- not Lothlorien. And then he looked about at the assembly of elves on the platform and he knew there were too few to fight. These were not warriors; these were artisans. Their only chance for survival was to hope the army beneath them would weary of their wait. And Legolas knew they would _never _weary.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

It was then that Faeldaer turned away from the bitter ruin that approached them. Legolas saw that he was dressed as a general might be. He wore a coat of mail in a metal Legolas could not quite identify. It glistened brightly, despite the darkness around them, but it seemed rather extravagant given their weak position. Over the elf's shoulders Faeldaer wore a light-colored cape bearing capped shoulders edged in cut crystals. It was clear to Legolas that this was of elven make, and it was quite beautiful to behold, but deadly as well. To come into contact with the stones would be painful, he knew, their jeweled cut put there to slice. Legolas noticed that the elf also wore a bejeweled knife at his side, the haft inlaid with gold and mithril. He wondered how the elf had come across such beautiful weaponry.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

A gust of wind arose as if carried by the noise. It stirred the stillness that had laid about them and picked up Faeldaer's cape. The elf's hair lifted and swirled in the eddy of its current. The elf looked regal in that moment, but Legolas wondered if the grandeur was misplaced. The elf lifted his hand to brush his hair away and Legolas saw his hands were shaking. The impression suddenly struck him that this was an elf lord in appearance alone, and as the lightning flashed again, the terror in the Noldor elf's eyes was as clear and obvious to Legolas as was the reason for the echoing noise.

Faeldaer's eyes turned to look at something behind the dwarf and it was then that Legolas noticed the close proximity of Mithtaur. Legolas saw Faeldaer's mouth twist into an expression of sorrow but then he seemed to pull some strength from within. His hand pressed to his chest as if there was strength in this gesture. And then he sighed and returned his gaze to the valley scene. "We will fight them," Faeldaer said but his voice was hesitant.

_Fight?_ Legolas thought. _How will you fight? You are not prepared for war!_

"That is not what we had agreed upon," the dwarf responded, sounding as aghast as Legolas felt.

"They will keep up this bombardment until we do. They mean to drive us out," the elf replied in a shuddering voice.

Narvi was muttering more of his refrain, "This is not as we agreed. We had promised to deliver the Ring to Galadriel. You shirk your pledge."

Faeldaer's eyes suddenly blazed in challenge to the dwarf. "Where is she then? _Where? _Is our need not evident? I wait for a sign of her, but none comes."

Legolas saw the challenge in the elf's eyes as a swift breeze suddenly kicked up and blew the sandy hair across Faeldaer's face. The curtain of hair was like a veil over Faeldaer's eyes but he shook it away a moment later.

"This was not as it was to occur. You were supposed to bring the Ring to her, not have her come to you to retrieve It. Galadriel's army might have come had they had the Ring as they were supposed to. You reneged on your promise, Faeldaer!"

"I did no such thing! The plans simply had to change. Can you not see we are trapped here? How am I to deliver a Ring to her when I cannot escape the forest for the ill-forces that surround us."

"That is a fool's answer! You had adequate time to give It to her! The enemy should not know we are here," the dwarf intoned. This was not a statement but an accusation.

"You should not question what I do," was all that the elf said in response, but it was relatively clear to Legolas then what happened.

Narvi mouthed Legolas' thoughts. "You donned the Ring, Faeldaer. You put It on!" He waved his hands at the comment, disappointment clearly his. "Do not try to excuse yourself for I know this to be true. You have _doomed us_! How long before they encroach upon us? What does the Ring tell you of that?"

Faeldaer's voice rose in defense, "I had to put It on! They were killing Celebrimbor! I could see it. I could _see_… and I could not let it be…" His voice dropped off and without explaining further, Legolas knew the elf somehow had been delivered the vision of Celebrimbor's death. This was another gift of the Ring he supposed. And he knew too that the action had only momentarily stayed Sauron. The demon had been given the advantage of knowing where the Ring lay hidden.

"You drew Sauron to us," Narvi accused just as Legolas thought it. "That was the last thing Celebrimbor would have wanted!"

"I do not think he wished for his death either," Faeldaer replied in a shaking voice. "I could not watch him perish like that!"

"You are a _fool!_"

Legolas' feelings matched. He felt an equal amount of disdain. Where he had felt sympathy for this elf before, siding with him and finding commonality with his plight, now he saw someone who acted with a lack of common sense. Legolas felt tremendous disappointment for Faeldaer, and Narvi spoke the same.

"_His death_ was a sacrifice he was willing to make to see to _our_ safety. Ultimately he wanted to see the Ring gifted as It was meant to! Galadriel is armed with the forces to fight this. They have prepared. _You_ have not! That ring grants you much, but not this. It is a curse. It holds you, Faeldaer, can you not see?"

"It does not hold me. It is not an addiction."

"Perhaps not, but you horde It possessively all the same. You need not have kept It for so long as to see what became of Celebrimbor. Had you delivered it the moment word came of the attack on Eregion, all might have remained as it should."

"It would not have stopped them. Even by route of the Dwarrowdelf, it would have taken three days for Amroth's army to reach the city. Even if the dwarves had joined them, all would have been as it has come."

"But if you saw this, Faeldaer, why did you not act as he bidded you to act?"

"I could not bear to see what they were doing to him!" Faeldaer said as tears rolled down his cheeks. "At least I put an end to that!"

"At the price of sacrificing your people," Narvi reminded him on whispered breath.

"That was not my intent. I only meant to…" Faeldaer began, but then he stopped himself. He eyed the massing army on the fields and he said in a shaking voice, "I will fight them."

Narvi suddenly stepped forward and grabbed the elf's arm. "Not before you tell me why you did it! Why did you keep the Ring when you knew It was never meant to be yours?"

The elf looked up from the valley, and he turned his eyes to the dwarf. They were swollen with tears, but his face was stern with conviction as he said, "It was the last thing I had of him." And the sympathy Legolas had pushed aside was suddenly returned.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

The sound interrupted the moment. It was growing nearer.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

And then shakily he looked back down on the valley and said, "It is time, Narvi. You must lead them to the caves."

"Surely you do not mean to do this alone?" the dwarf asked.

"I promised to protect them," Faeldaer said as he gazed at thirty elves gathered below the platform. "They are not warriors."

"And neither are you," Narvi added.

"You think _you_ are?" Faeldaer replied mockingly.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

And then his face grew grave. "Now, Narvi. I command it. I do have weapons of my own. Not all is completely spare."

"What? Do you mean the Ents? Your intention is to employ them?" the dwarf asked with shock and Legolas joined him in this. It seemed he and Narvi thought with much the same mind at this moment.

"They are loyal to us," Faeldaer replied.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

"I doubt their generosity, when first offered, was meant to extend to war machines catapulting granite missiles upon the wood!"

"It cannot last long. The dark army's supply of this rock is not so great," the elf excused.

"They have resource enough to do harm! The Ents will be crushed. I wait, for I know it will be fire that they launch soon."

"Trust Treebeard to do what he must in this," Faeldaer replied.

"And what is it that they toss now? Does the power of that Ring give you answer to this?" Narvi asked.

"It is the walls of Hollin that they volley upon us, Narvi." Faeldaer's voice was flat, but despite the awkward delivery of that news, Legolas felt his heart crushed by the words. It was a wretched pain in his chest to hear that the realm he only knew of in lore was destroyed, and done so for the sake of vengeance.

It took the dwarf a moment to digest that fact. And then he said, "It is a message."

"Of course it is a message. They mean to intimidate us."

"They do a good job!" Narvi proclaimed.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

"You should leave now, while the war machines are still a good distance from us. If the Valar are with us, these creatures will not learn of our position and direct their focus here."

Seeming to gain greater anger with this news, Narvi asked, "How do they haul that stone to this place?"

"Trolls. Now do not ask any more of me! Leave!"

"I cannot. Not when I know of the ruin that is wrought upon Fangorn. Find someone else to lead the people into the tunnels. I will stay with you and fight!"

Faeldaer's face contorted in anger. "There are no others! You are the only one here who knows his way about the tunnels. The elves have not entered those caves since they were first opened, and certainly none here were about then. You have to go!" Faeldaer then glanced back at Mithtaur as he said, "If it will appease you though, dwarf, the Ents fight. Even now Treebeard stands at the forest edge. By his command, some have stepped out and advance on the line to the south."

"How do you know?"

"I know." There was finality to the elf's words, and Legolas knew no further comment would be forthcoming on the subject. _It is the gift of Nenya,_ he thought. But Faeldaer continued in another vein, "Have no worries. Mithtaur will stand with me should they come this way. We will protect you where you hide."

"How can you say that? Their war instruments are leveling trees on the other side of this forest even as we speak!"

"The harm will not be that great."

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

"Do you not hear the sound of it? They draw nearer! And when the army enters this wood, they will burn it to the ground."

"They will not enter! They will not even near it!"

"How do you know this? Even Celebrimbor did not fully believe his visions," Narvi argued.

Faeldaer rounded on the dwarf. "He believed them enough to have me build this realm for him. He believed them enough to bring these others here. He believed enough to know that at least some of this fortune would come to pass!"

"But he believed enough to know some would not!" the dwarf shouted.

"Take them into the caves, Narvi," Faeldaer urged. It was clear this was a showdown of words.

"He failed to see everything! He failed to accomplish the deed he put upon himself!"

"Take them to the caves!"

"How do you know what you saw was even true? Perhaps it was another deception by Annatar! Perhaps Celebrimbor still lives! Do you not think he would be disappointed in you?"

The elf gritted his teeth. _"I will not say it again!"_

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

"And worst of all, you now have the last Ring! He did not mean for _you _to have It. The Ring you bear is the reason they march upon us!"

This seemed to be all Faeldaer would tolerate. He turned to the Ent, suddenly ignoring the dwarf. "Mithtaur! Tell my people to take refuge in the caves!" he called. The Ent rushed forward to obey. In the briefest of thoughts, Legolas wondered if the power of Nenya had anything to do with the Ent's servile ways. But he did not dwell there as Narvi went on.

"Had you kept your pledge, none of this destruction would have befallen Fangorn Wood!" Narvi continued. "Galadriel would have held these forces back and the innocents in this forest would not see harm."

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

"Tell them to hurry, Mithtaur." The rain of stone boomed louder and nearer, each crash of it accompanied by the cry of frightened elves.

Legolas watched as the Ent swept into action. Very swift was he, moving past Faeldaer and Narvi while barely making a sound. "Come now, come," he was saying in his patient Ent voice. His bough-like arms stretched out as if they were carried by a strong wind, but gently he encircled the thirty or so elves and he shepherded them up the path. As they moved another flash of lightning lit up the scene. Some cried in their fright, huddling into the arms of loved ones.

"This is not what Celebrimbor wanted!" the dwarf cried.

"Celebrimbor did not realize my talents. Had he known, he would have willingly bequeathed the Ring to me!"

"You are mad!" Narvi cried, and Legolas thought he might agree. There was a crazed glimmer in the elf's eyes.

"Sauron cannot defeat me so long as I hold It. Its power is great, you will see! Do not doubt me!"

"You cannot do this, Faeldaer! Do not mistake intentions of doing good with power. The Ring cannot do so much without being worn. And to wear It would bring doom."

"You forget I had a hand in crafting those other Rings. I am better versed at how to utilize these powers than you might think.'

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

The booming sound of the crashing rock exploded on the other side of the rise. Screams rose from the massing elves. And just as they parted, a shadow fell over the water, and then it exploded as a massive piece of granite struck one of the trees on the island at the center of the pond.

More screams pierced the air as a great whip of water leapt from the lake where the granite shattered. The panic all about them then was like an object to be touched.

And then a great faltering rumble of thunder, greater than any of the other sounds, shook the world and all fell suddenly still. No cries came forth. None dared speak. It was like a horrible doom was now being foretold with the low boom of the thunder. The impending storm was almost upon them. A sense of urgency rushed at Legolas. The heavy feeling of the air was like lead, and all felt suddenly strange and unwholesome.

And then Faeldaer's voice broke the silence. "The caves, Narvi! It is the safest place. There is no more time…To the caves, now!" The elf then set off at a run, the motion suddenly propelling the others to follow

Narvi was at his heals. "I will go, but only to undo the harm you put upon your people!"

"They will be safe! You will see! They will be safe!" Faeldaer was crying

Away they ran from Mírnen, down the slopes, following the path set next to the moving stream. The world was dark and grey with the looming tide of malice shadowing it. They broke away from the water's edge, and their trek went around the base of the bowl-like platform. They were exposed on that open cliffside for a moment only, and then the ledge was again hidden in foliage.

"There!" cried Faeldaer, pointing to the entrance just ahead of them. "There! Get them in, Narvi!" The entrance to the cave was barely discernible in the surrounding greens.

Narvi leapt to the front of the line, pushing his way around the crying people. He shifted onto his haunches, showing the others then how they might enter the space. The cave's door was little more than a small hole at the floor of the wall, but Narvi assured them as he helped each elf into the hole, "It is large inside once you get past the entrance. It travels down quite deep beyond. Do not fear. Just go! Go!"

Mithtaur stood near the ledge, and Legolas could see his girth kept him from getting any closer. He would have fallen off the precipice and into the river stream below if he came any closer. But he could be heard saying, "In, little elves, in in in! It will be safe for you there, or so they do say. In in, Hurry now! Hasten!"

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

More lobbed stones could be heard exploding in the wood. The sound was dreadfully near.

And then only Narvi was left. He stood by the entrance as if hesitant to be parted. "Go!" Faeldaer cried, but the dwarf did not move. "Go! I am relying upon you, dwarf!"

"Dare I leave you?" the dwarf cried, and another dooming rumble shook the earth.

"You must! You must protect them!" The wind was now blowing.

A huge gust of wind suddenly blew and it tossed the dwarf's words into the air. "I fear for this end, Faeldaer."

"Please, Narvi, I beg of you..."

"You are the only thing I have left of him," the dwarf choked out.

Tears crested in Faeldaer's eyes as he squeezed the dwarf's arm. Lightning flashed and thunder sounded. It blocked any words the elf might have said then, which was probably for the better, for the Mírnen leader looked as if his heart was breaking.

But suddenly Faeldaer whipped his head around and his eyes lit upon something in the distance. His brow furrowed and his eyes widened. By his expression, it did not take great wisdom for Legolas to perceive what was happening. The madness, greed, and heartbreak were gone. Terror was in Faeldaer's eyes, and Legolas knew; Sauron was coming forth!

An instant later Faeldaer pushed the dwarf aside, crying with urgency, "Now go! In Narvi! In now! We do not wish him to see you! He should not know of you or the others!"

Legolas found a snippet of good in these fearful words. It was told that the ancient dark lord was not aware that there were others of Celebrimbor's realm residing in this place. There was assurance in this, as if the danger was somehow lessened and Faeldaer had done something right in protecting his people.

With an equal expression of fear, the dwarf looked past the elf. Swallowing trepidation, he said in a quaking voice, "Fight then. Fight well, my friend. But let me leave you with this, for you need to know one last thing of Celebrimbor before I go: his position would not allow him to profess his love. This he told me. But Mandos will not let it go unsaid. All things are confessed in the Great Halls. You will be with him again some day. Mark me. And when you are, remember me to him."

Then he nodded his head again, tears falling as he quickly embraced the elf. With that the dwarf then turned and crept into the hole. No more of Narvi or the cave was to be seen after that.

Faeldaer steeled himself and Legolas saw it was only he and Mithtaur who would face the danger to come. And though he knew he was not to be a part of this doom, he felt as much fear and dread as he perceived Faeldaer to feel. He found himself tossing where he lay in the outward world. He should wake now, he knew. But he did not wish it. He wanted to know what was to come next. He wanted to see the meeting between Faeldaer and Sauron.

And at the same moment, he felt a sense of pride for the bravery the other was displaying. The conviction in the other elf's eyes told Legolas that Faeldaer, while frightened, did believe he had skills with the Ring. At the same time, reality was Legolas' to bear. This was Sauron the elf was to face. _Sauron._ He had destroyed Gil-Galad in a flash of thought. To win battle against such a foe was likened to overpowering a Balrog. And Faeldaer was no warrior; the outcome of such a battle was only too predictable!

He saw Faeldaer then turn to the Ent. Mithtaur stood just on the other side of the ledge. "Guard this way, my friend," Faeldaer cried, and the oak-like Ent nodded. "Do not leave them! Guard them as if they were your own! I put their lives upon you!"

Mithtaur's eyes brightened, and he stood taller before the path. The command did not appear to daunt him. In fact, he looked pleased to take the task, and that seemed strange. Another brief thought crept into Legolas' mind, for it bothered him how little he was learning of Mithtaur though he thought that had been the point of this dream-telling. This story focused almost entirely on Faeldaer, but should it not show something of the fears and actions put upon the old Ent?

Again, the wind whipped and the ferny walls pressed the white undersides of their fronds outward. The gust smashed them to the rock as the impending storm drew nearer.

He turned then to Faeldaer, who had taken a step around the Ent and forward up the path. But then the elf stopped. He seemed to hesitate, as if he might turn and flee. In his mind, Legolas encouraged him on, and as if he could hear him, Faeldaer stepped forward.

But terror was soon to light in the other elf's eyes just as lightning crashed above him. A figure stood illuminated in the dark path, back near where the stream cut off from the trail. A body was coming forth!

The elf backed away, his fright obvious, and Legolas could not blame him. The sense of dread that came with this figure was overpowering. But before anything else could happen, the air suddenly stilled. It was eerie how silent the world became.

"So this is where you hide, Faeldaer," a voice smoothly said.

Legolas could see the elf's eyes go wide as he backed into the Ent. But focusing only on the figure, the elf said, "I will fight you." He then unsheathed his knife, Legolas could see that his hands were shaking.

It was then that Legolas turned his eyes upon the sight of the figure. The hood that covered the figure's head was pushed aside, and then Legolas saw the true form of Sauron.

He gasped.

He had not expected…

…An elf. No. No elf.

Timeless and beautiful, the face was everything an elf's would be. Should be. Only… this was the face of a Man! Yes, it was a Man, only exceedingly enhanced. The vision startled Legolas though he had known Sauron had walked in Man's guise. Yet it was surprising because there was none of the weakness of Men to be found here. There was _power_.

This being was beyond simple terms to describe. His features were nothing compared to the presence he carried. Physically, he was a marvel. Skin, tan and smooth radiated from the face that was revealed from beneath the cloak. A hand, strong and veined, drew the hood back and Legolas gulped as eyes that were as blue as the Mírnen's depths shone while perfect lips smiled, parting to reveal straight, white teeth. Cheekbones curving from the symmetrical skull highlighted the concave of a strong jawline. The man was tall, well-muscled, with a mane of golden hair to frame his head.

The eyes traced his surroundings. They gazed upon Faeldaer for a moment and smiled. And then they continued their trek about the area, and slowly they came to rest upon the place where Legolas stood.

At first he thought it just a trick of the light, for he knew he was not really there in history's telling of the tale. Yet Sauron's eyes did not move. _He sees me,_ Legolas gasped. And indeed, it seemed true. This man looked. He saw. Directly, thoroughly, intimately he was gazing upon Legolas. Somehow, the passage of time was broached and history was told with a place for him in it. Legolas was seen!

"Come now," the man said, his eyes never leaving Legolas. The elf felt mesmerized by the color of those orbs. He was leaden under their gaze. They were penetrating, as if they knew everything of him and that they looked beyond him. They saw him there. Now. Then.

The man's laughter touched him like a cold hand, and he found enough of himself to flinch away. And then he heard the voice continue in a liquid tone that was velvety and rich. "Surely you knew I would come. Had you not thought you might see me soon enough? What would a journey to your new home be without a visit from your dear friend?"

Legolas was forced to gaze up again at those words. It felt as if they were intended for him as much as they were for Faeldaer. He had never thought to be witness to the unveiling of the man who had sundered so much of his people's history.

Yet here he was, the heart of all shadow on Middle-earth in the last of these ages, and he was …beautiful! He was the most astonishing creature Legolas had ever laid eyes upon, more beautiful even then Galadriel, if one chose to compare. But the elf shook himself away from this, reminded that what stood before him now was also_the_ monster, _the _wretched demon that nearly caused the complete ruin of Middle-earth. It had not dawned on Legolas that Sauron could appear thus. _He wears a disguise!_ The handsome qualities of this mannish creature were incredibly deceptive, and had he no knowledge otherwise, he might have easily come to love the beauty that captured him. He could see how the others were fooled. If the power was hidden, these fair qualities could persuade. Raptly, his eyes gazed. He could not turn away.

But the power was there, and it _was _being used, not hidden. It was frightening how great and how dreadful it was. Annatar's eyes stared into him. He felt them reaching into the core of his soul. He gasped at the icy chill of the violation. Those eyes were dark and horrible. They were reaching. They were breathtaking. Here was the evil that dwelt in the darkest of souls. Somehow, that was alive. And he was reaching for Legolas.

No, not Legolas! The elf turned his eyes away. It was not Legolas that _Annatar_ was looking at. It was Faeldaer. It suddenly dawned upon Legolas that he was seeing this scene through Faeldaer's eyes. The impossibility of that fact was a new one among the many mysteries he had already uncovered. And yet despite this new worry, the dread of the dream was much more important.

"I think we should dispense with all pretense," the man said, and he came to stand before Legolas -- or was it Faeldaer? Those eyes pierced him, sending chills ricocheting down his spine. The man spoke again. "You know me for who I am. I think you should call me by my rightful name."

Then it seemed in a blink that he no longer stood before the elf but instead _towered_ over him. Legolas stepped back, gulping in his fear. He felt weak and insignificant in this presence. No more was there a man standing before him. This was a _god_!

Words sounded in his ears like a trumpet blast. "_Bow to me, for I am your lord!_"

Legolas quaked, not meaning to, but unable to do anything else. He was an inferior in the eyes of this creature! He could be crushed with just a thought!

But somehow he found the courage to challenge the superiority of this one. He held his gaze, the only sign of rebellion he could muster. And yet he found he had to lower his eyes after only a brief minute. And then to his immortal failing he found that he was bowing! Or was it Faeldaer who was bowing? It mattered not! He did not want it! _No!_ his mind screamed.

"You understand then," this horrible demon was saying, and the words seemed to echo through Legolas' skull. They twisted in his mind and he winced with the sudden agony of their sound. They were harsh and ugly, and they tore at his brain like fingers tearing upon flesh. "You know me for who I am," the horrible voice said, and Legolas gasped in pain as each enunciated sound cut into him. "You… _Legolas_…will …call… me… Sauron."

And then Legolas found himself falling into a black void, and he had no more control of his soul.

TBC


	11. Banishing the Dream

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Ten: Banishing the Dream _

He had no choices. He belonged to another. The eyes were staring at him and he could not turn away. They were in his mind and in his soul and he had no way to shut them out.

"Look at me and obey," the voice smoothly commanded and Legolas felt compelled to do as he had been told.

He was breathing hard now, trying to find the power to push himself into wakefulness. _This is just a dream,_ he kept telling himself. _It is just a dream!_ And yet he heard the voice and he knew he was helpless to do anything but what it said.

"Put the Ring on," the voice ordered and the eyes glanced down to where Legolas fumbled with the collar of his tunic, searching with his fingers to find what those eyes bid him to do. He could not help himself. He found himself wanting to follow the orders, desirous to please his master. And at the same time he knew he could not; he was not mastered and he had no Ring to put on!

He grappled with this momentary confusion, trying to piece it into the fabric of reality. _I have no Ring,_ he thought. _I have no Ring! _And strangely, that minor break in the dream's occurrence propelled him far enough away from the command that he was able to see the scene more fully.

And then he was free. He was not the center of Sauron's attention but just an observer on the slopeside shelf once again. He gasped in relief knowing he was no longer robbed of his own actions.

"Put the Ring on!"

It was Sauron in the guise of Annatar saying this now, and Legolas understood that he should not gaze too deeply on the mask of this monster. In this form, Sauron was powerful. He had learned that, and he would not fall into the trap again.

But his power seemed not to have the full of its effect on Faeldaer. The elf was grimacing as he held the demon lord's gaze. He was not giving in to the demand and Legolas felt strengthened and encouraged by that.

"_Now!"_ Sauron shouted and the earth rumbled, but Faeldaer only shook his head.

"I will not," the elf whispered. He did not reach for the Ring and Legolas was proud of his ability to resist the command. He could see the jewel now, dangling from a chain around the elf's neck. It seemed to shine brighter with the elf's restraint. The Ring was white against the shimmering metal of Faeldaer's vest. Winking and flashing, It seemed to gain a power that rose with the elf's rebellion. Legolas gasped in amazement while the wind twisted and swirled around them.

But Sauron was not pleased. He leaned in closer as his countenance glowed a greater sheen. He was almost unbearable to look upon, so bright was he. Faeldaer shrank back. "Your soul is mine, Faeldaer. You belong to me. _Obey me!"  
_

And then the elf's left hand seemed to lose its control. As if directed by another, it moved up to the chain. Faeldaer's right hand however held tight to the knife he had previously pulled from the scabbard. The elf's face contorted as if he were fighting a physical force.

Sauron laughed at the struggle, his voice dancing on the wind. "You are bonded to me, Faeldaer. You cannot fight what of me there is within you. You have been wed to my soul."

"No! No!" Faeldaer gasped between gritted teeth. "You fooled me. I did not think it was you!"

And again the monster laughed. The sound of the demonic chortle twisted to the core of Legolas' body. He shuddered as he continued to listen and watch.

"You thought I was Celebrimbor that night. It was a deception, you see. How foolish of you to think so great an elf lord as he would bind his soul to an ignoble like you! Had you any sense to guide you, you would have seen he has no affections for you."

"He loved me!" Faeldaer cried, but Legolas could see the elf was weakening.

"_Loved?_" the evil Maia mocked. "Celebrimbor only pitied you!"

Faeldaer was sobbing now, falling to his knees. He seemed to have no fight left, though the Ring at his neck still showed brightly. His head was turned away, his eyes averted as he wept. "I will not believe that! Celebrimbor loved me, even if his affections could not cross the breach created by our friendship. Were he here he would say that. I know he would!"'

The demon-man stepped back, and it seemed he considered those words for a brief moment. He looked upon the wrecked elf heaving great gulps of air on the stone ledge, his arms quaking still as he fought off the compulsion to obey Sauron's demand. And then a horrible gust of wind blew and the cape that was draped across the shoulders of the glowing figure of a man whipped around him, and when the wind died, he was gone. In his place stood the striking figure of Celebrimbor.

"You love me, Faeldaer," the mock image of the elf lord said.

Another sob fell from the lips of Faeldaer as he looked up at the figure, but this one seemed to be made in relief as the elf's hand dropped to his lap as if relieved of its struggle. "You…" he began, and then his face crushed into a grimace of despair. "You are dead!"

"But your bond to me is not. You love me."

The brown-eyed elf nodded slightly as he gazed down into his lap. "I love Celebrimbor," he said. And then Legolas noticed the elf's color rise at the same time that the Ring began to glow even brighter, and at the same moment, the knife, held still in Faeldaer's right hand, was burning as if lit by fire. "And for the sake of my love, I will try to destroy you, Sauron!" The knife was then thrust into the vision of Celebrimbor. It struck into the left thigh of the demon lord.

Like the howl of a warg, Sauron cried out a foul curse. He stumbled back, transforming back into his human self. But he was obviously wounded and unbalanced by the attack. There was something changed -- darker -- about his appearance. Faeldaer raised the knife again, ready to strike, but the second cut never came. Sauron put out a hand and the knife was thrown away. And then he raised his other hand and the elf was thrown across the ledge to land at the feet of Mithtaur.

_Hear me!_

"Put on the Ring!" Sauron was screaming as he lurched forward. The Maia was horrible to look upon suddenly, his appearance growing more fearsome as he stalked forth. His body shifted with each step as a random display of beings formed. One by one, Annatar, Celebrimbor and Narvi appeared. And then it was Faeldaer looking at a twin of himself, and then others came forth. The demonstration made it abundantly clear -- Sauron could imitate any form that he chose.

But Legolas understood the danger as he continued to watch the scene. Faeldaer was dragging himself back upon elbows and kicking his feet, fleeing the ominous sight as it approached.

"Put It on!" the dark lord demanded and his hand was very near the Ring. He was reaching for It, going for It, and the gem was rising from the chain, floating as if on an invisible wire.

"NO! _Get away from him!"_ Mithtaur screamed suddenly and Sauron looked up. The Ent swung his great club of a fist. The Maia was thrown. Back onto the trail he landed so that he was near the stream.

As he stood, his face contorted into a look of rage, and the purity of his evil completely erased any beauty that had once been there. The wind now blew a heavy gale and the air, which had felt weighty before, grew so thick as to be nearly unbreathable. And then it came -- the rain! The relief of that should have been great, but it only furthered the nightmare. Down it fell, smashing to the earth, as if heavy globes of glass were being pelted upon them. Stinging like pounding fists, they broke over the surface of the cliff, instantly turning dirt into mud.

And then Sauron came to stand at the full of his height, and he raised his fist to the sky and Legolas knew a new horror was about to fall.

Lightning shot down from the sky. It struck as if aimed.

And then all was enveloped in a blinding light. Sound stung and Legolas found he could neither see nor hear.

Blinking, he squinted his eyes until his vision subtly cleared. Dimly, the tinny sound of Faeldaer's voice could be heard. "Mithtaur!" the elf was screaming. And then Legolas saw that the tree lord had been thrown. He lay against the wall, across the ledge landing just where the cave entrance was hidden. The Ent was on his side, precariously balanced upon the ledge but he did not move. To Legolas' horror, he saw the Ent's top branches were afire.

"No! No!" Faeldaer cried as he scrambled toward the prone figure. The heavy rain and the narrowness of the ledge made it difficult to get near.

Yet despite his cries, Mithtaur burned! The rain appeared to do nothing to quench the flames. "No!" the elf continued to scream as he tried to get the Ent to notice his horrible condition.

Tears filled his eyes as he screamed for the Ent to notice. The rain matted his hair to his skull and all the grace he had carried in his appearance before was lost to the storm.

_Awake! Awake I say to you!_

And then he turned back toward Sauron as the tree creature burned and the look of rage in Faeldaer's eyes was horrible to behold. It was clear then that the elf had been pushed to the point of fury. His hand went to the chain and the Ring, and he pulled them free, raising them in the same manner that Sauron had just used. The elf seemed to concentrate as his lips moved, and Legolas knew he made a plea to the heavens. Legolas knew the heights of malice were before him, one risen in the intent of hostility, and the other claimed by the desire to protect those he loved.

It seemed then that the rain pelted even harder, if such a thing was possible. The noise, combined with ringing that was still in his ears, was deafening. It was so loud that he nearly missed the rumbling noise of a river of rain that poured over the side of the cliff. Water flowed, but it was not rain that caused the deluge. And then the course of water transformed into a waterfall flowing over the wall, across the ledge, and down to the stream, now grown to a river!

Torrents of water poured. White caps formed on angry waves as what was the Mírnen spilled over the edge of the bowl and down all around them. Sauron, raised a hand, aghast, but he was swept in the tide that spewed in the foamy current. Rolling rapids carried him away.

He was gone.

He was gone, and the world stilled.

The rain slowed though the waterfall continued. The water fed into what had been a pleasant stream. Now it was a raging river. The ledge tapered into this flow of water, and Legolas looked for its outlet in the fields beyond. The swollen banks spilled the excess out, and he could see the lands growing flooded with the overflow. Below on the fields where the army had gathered, in the places where the floodwaters did not spill, the torches had been extinguished, and the formations of army lines seemed to break apart. The legions were disrupted, and chaos seemed to shuffle the order of those forces.

Turning back, he saw that the Ent's fire was doused by the spill. The water fell about them, and Faeldaer stood his place, guarding the entrance to the cave, just as he had said he would. The water fell to either side of them, but not upon them. Faeldaer smiled and Legolas knew his thoughts. He could see the light shining in the elf and he realized the power contained in Nenya. With new respect, he saw It was greater than he had ever suspected for Faeldaer had done all of this without even donning It. Imagine what he could have done had he truly worn the gem. But fear played on the edge of this realization, for the One Ring was said to be greater still.

Yet the demon lord had lost this battle and those of Fangorn had lived to be the victor. There was joy in that knowledge. Still, he knew this was not done. It was clear that Sauron had underestimated Nenya's power, but it was also likely that would not happen again. And with that he saw that the war had not come to an end. Sauron might have lost this small battle, but there was more to be put upon them. So much more.

His eyes followed Faeldaer actions then, his focus drawn back to the other being there on that shelf, and he saw what the elf saw. His face fell as he came to realize just how badly Mithtaur had been hurt.

The tree lord lay as he had before. He had not moved and his eys were closed. He was charred in places, and sooty sap bled from open wounds across his trunk. He was positioned in such a way that it would be nearly impossible to remove him from the shelf and Legolas was uncertain how they might help him.

But there was more. With a flash of insight, or perhaps premonition, a dawning understanding came to fall upon Legolas and he came to see Faeldaer felt it too.

And then Legolas sensed, rather than saw, that something was coming. Destruction was near. With a warrior's instinct, he looked across the field, searching for the source of his fears. And then he saw it.

They had to flee! Now!

In the dim light, the swing of the trebuchet finished its arc, and all suddenly moved as if time had come to a crawl. His eyes followed the curve of the arm as gray light fell upon the object that flew from that machine. Golden stone, carved and beautiful, told of another time and a place, but it was lost to glory as it spun end over end in the sky. It had lost its purpose, and now it hurtled toward them as only an object of menace. The sun was gone from it. It was a weapon, closing in upon the place where they stood, destined to crush them where they stood.

"No!" Legolas screamed, trying to flee the hurling stone and Faeldaer cried the same. "Get away!" He was pushing at Mithtaur, kicking the Ent to roll, and then he was loosed and in a river of mud, down they fell.

Down!

Sound exploded in the place where they had stood! Rock cascaded! Stone shattered and fell as they slid and spilled! They were tumbling! Falling!

Down!

_Get away! Now!_

Someone was shoving him, pushing him. There were words screamed into his ears.

"Get away! Now!"

And then he was gone from the moment.

He grabbed at pure air. He was falling!

"Awake! I will not say it again!"

No, there was no flight. His hands flailed, reaching for nothing at the same moment that he realized he felt something solid was beneath him.

His breath was quavering on great gasps of air and he was bewildered by confused feelings.

Where was he? His heart beat an erratic pattern, and he gulped on air. His skin was wet with sweat and he was lost for an answer. Where was he?

"Get away from him!"

"Wha…?" He had been falling and there had been an explosion… the cave! What had come of those hidden in the cave? He tried to look up, to see the ledge that would have been above him, but of course it was not there. Yet the safety of those within was his first thought. He had to find out what had happened to them!

It had been death he had been looking at. Death!

"Legolas, awake!"

And then he remembered where he was and how he had come to be there. He was in the tree, where he had fallen asleep in Fangorn Forest. He was safe.

The music of the Ent celebration could yet be heard. But it had seemed a lifetime since he had partaken in that event and his disorientation was tremendous. He was unsure now what had been real and what had been dream. The battle had seemed so very _real_!

"Legolas! Now! _Now!_ Hear me!"

And then he came to be somewhat aware of his situation, at last understanding some of the words being said. Gimli was shouting.

"Get away, I tell you! So help me I shall--!"

"Gimli?" Legolas gasped, startled by the dwarf's cries. In bewildered dismay, the elf blinked his eyes to full wakefulness, but nothing seemed to focus. "Gimli?" he asked fearfully, his voice growing louder.

"You will move away now! I will not be made responsible for what comes to pass if you do not!"

And then Legolas' eyes did clear. A grey shadow hung over him, swaying as if moved by a breeze. An instant later he realized what the shadow was.

"You?" he whispered.

The Ent backed away as if frightened by Legolas' revival.

The elf quickly sat up. His head was spinning with the quickness of this move, but he recovered his equilibrium quickly as he cried, "No, please! Stay!"

The Ent then leaned in as if he were inspecting a small object. "I did not mean to frighten you," he whispered.

Legolas was perplexed. This was Mithtaur, the gentle giant he had seen so damaged in the dream. He glanced up now to those singed branches the Ent donned yet, and he said, "You were hurt." Legolas wished to touch the Ent then, to offer his sympathy and concern. And he wanted to ask a dozen questions at least. What had happened next in the reality of the dream world?

"I only thoughtthoughtthought… that is, he would want you to know."

"Who?" Legolas whispered.

"Get away! Get away!" Gimli was yelling.

"Who?" Legolas asked. And then guessing this was the answer, he jumped to his next query. "Is it Faeldaer that you speak of? What became of Faeldaer?" His head was still swimming with the haziness of sleep but then out of the corner of his eye he saw and suddenly realized what it was Gimli was shouting about.

The Ent did not answer. He was backing away. Gimli now had out his axe and was driving the creature with the threat of wielding it.

"Gimli, no!" Legolas exclaimed as he leapt from the tree. He felt off balance and queer, but he ran before his friend despite his strange feelings, reaching to hold back the weapon. He caught Gimli's eye as he held the dwarf back and he saw the deep concern there, but he did not answer it. Instead he turned his face to Mithtaur, hoping it was enough. But the Ent was making a swift retreat.

He dropped Gimli's arms. "No! Wait!" he cried, making chase. Yet the Ent was gone before the words even left his lips.

He took a step to advance, but he was yanked back by a firm hand on his wrist. "Did he hurt you?" Gimli cried. Legolas looked down on his friend and he could see Gimli inspecting his body. His stout companion ran hands over the elf's forearms and back. Legolas ignored him, turning again to look in the direction the Ent had taken. He searched the density beyond but saw no sign of Mithtaur. And then he took a step forward, mindlessly swatting Gimli away as he did. The dwarf stopped, harrumphing with insult or impatience, and he asked the question again, "Answer me! Are you hurt?"

Mithtaur was gone and though Legolas would have wished it otherwise, following would not be possible so long as the dwarf trailed him with a stream of words. He grimaced, looking down on his friend. It was all he could do not to run into the woods in the attempt to find the Ent. His irritation for the dwarf's hasty actions made it hard for him to answer. "I am well, Gimli."

The stout warrior sighed and he smiled very slightly as if he were greatly relieved. "That gladdens me," he mumbled, and then abruptly his mood grew stern. "What was he doing to you? I've been calling to you but you did not wake. I thought he had hurt you."

Legolas felt a sudden protective concern for the Ent, and he was irritated at Gimli's perception that Mithtaur could do him harm. "Why would you think that?" Legolas asked. His heartbeat was yet to calm, and his agitation had not stilled. He kept blinking his eyes. He could not seem to get them to fully focus.

The dwarf scowled as if reading his scorn. "Why would I not? That is the better question, elf. I thought he hurt you because you did not stir!"

"I awoke when you called me," Legolas dismissed.

But Gimli was clearly angry, and he grabbed Legolas' wrist as he retorted loudly, "Nay, you did not! I called you several times and there was no reaction. If you were sleeping, I have never seen you do so as you did just now."

The dwarf's reaction startled the elf, but he brushed the ire off with the teasing sound of his words. "You must be mistaken, Gimli. I do no sleep so sound that I cannot detect your noises."

The dwarf snorted, an encouraging sound, but the fire in his eyes told Legolas that he was still vexed. Strangely, Gimli's anger did much to dispel Legolas'. "Perhaps not usually, but today was different," the dwarf stated a little more calmly. And then he gazed into the elf's eyes and there was honest concern there. "It could have been the Ent draught," he offered. "You are not used to that drink."

Legolas nearly walked over Gimli's words to contradict him, but the next ones from the dwarf took Legolas aback and he never got in his retort. Gimli said, "I swear to you, elf, when I left earlier, it appeared that your eyes were closed."

Legolas blinked. What did Gimli mean by 'when I left earlier'? What _'earlier'_ had there been for the dwarf to make leave. And secondly…"I do not sleep with eyes closed!" the elf snarled without even completing the thoughts running through his head. "When did you leave?"

It was clear Gimli realized his misstep, and he was almost apologetic as he replied, "Around mid-day. And I said it only _appeared_ that your eyes were closed. I obviously did not stand over you. I cannot know for certain."

That was when Legolas noticed that the day was at its near end. The hour was close to dusk. He had laid down to rest in the morning hours, shortly after dawn, and now it was nearly nightfall_! Nightfall?_ He gasped with this revelation. "Have I slept for the entirety of the day?"

"It would appear so," the dwarf replied, a chuckle hiding behind his voice. Legolas eyed his friend warily. He could see that Gimli was enjoying this revelation.

"But..." Legolas could not immediately recall the last time he had slept so long or so soundly.

"He hurt you! That must be it!" The dwarf's expression suddenly changed. Legolas found himself stepping in his friend's path to keep him from pursuit of the Ent.

"No, he was not hurting me!"

"What other explanation is there for your sound sleep?"

That urge to protect Mithtaur came over Legolas again, and he struggled for a way to quiet his companion's wrath. Humor oft worked and thus he said in a sarcastic manner, "Perhaps I needed rest," He put aside his own disbelief, covering it with irritation instead. For some reason, he did not want the dwarf putting blame upon Mithtaur. "Likely it was as you say. The drink put this sleep upon me." But then the elf's protective worries came forward as he realized this might indeed be so. And if true… "How do you feel? You drank far more than I."

Gimli smirked as if realizing the elf might turn the moment upon him, "Me? I am well! Never better, in fact."

Legolas looked at Gimli in disbelief. It was typical that the dwarf would deny any illness, and so Legolas studied him in the attempt to find flaw in that statement. But then it occurred to him he had to agree. Gimli looked quite hale. The dwarf's hair was glistening with health and his skin and eyes seemed bright and clear.

That gave the elf reason to step back into other concerns. He recalled the dwarf from his dream and he found there was much still missing from the tale. What had become of those folk? He looked again in the direction the Ent had taken. "I must speak to Mithtaur," he said as he began to walk that way.

"What?" Gimli objected.

"He did not intend me harm, Gimli. He was speaking to me. He was telling me of what happened in his part of the forest."

"You need not follow him to find that out. Just ask, for the rest of the tale is known already."

"Not as he would tell it."

"Mayhap not, but I can tell you what you need to know all the same."

"You know what came of the elves?"

"Aye, All here do. Sweettree and many of the others finished telling me while you slept."

Legolas shook his head. He had no recollection of Lendglad, or any other Ents, save the old grey oak, in the last part of the dream. "But how could Lendglad tell you Mithtaur's tale when he was not there?"

The gruff reply from the dwarf was made in his usual irascible way. "He did not tell me Greywood's part," Gimli said succinctly with a sigh thrown into the mix. "He told me what happened. Apparently he participated enough to know that they died."

"Died? Who? The elves?" Legolas gasped. His confusion now was great. They could not be dead. Mithtaur had said _'he _would have wanted Legolas to know' the tale. Legolas had assumed 'he' meant Faeldaer, and with that he had thought that might mean Faeldaer yet lived. If that were so, he had thought that the others too might have survived. "How?" he asked in a quaking voice, not wishing it to be true, but needing to have this fact confirmed. "How did they die?"

"In the cave. There was a storm, and the thunder was crashing. Sweettree told me there was a great deal of confusion as the war machines sent a rain of granite upon the north side of the forest. Those within were trapped or crushed, none are really sure. The Ents tried to dig them out, but they could not reach the ledge with any ease. No one emerged from the hole."

Legolas shook his head. He was vastly confused. Now more than ever he wished to know what Mithtaur had been trying to say, for it did not gibe with Lendglad's part. If all those in hiding had died, as Lendglad would tell it, what had come of Faeldaer?

"Narvi was among them," he quietly spoke, wanting something of a reaction from the dwarf. He wanted to know he was not alone in his misery.

"Yes," Gimli said, adding no more, but Legolas could then tell his friend was upset about the famous dwarf's demise.

Melancholy settled upon the elf. This journey was not as he anticipated it would be. It was all a surprise. All of it.

Somehow he had hoped for more, but of course he knew the elves of Hollin must have died. Logic told him that Treebeard would know of their presence if they did still exist. But then he also recalled the strange words Mithtaur had said to them when they first met. He had to question that. Did he not say he would not be held responsible for Treebeard's discovery of the elf and dwarf wandering the woods? What was that supposed to mean? If there were no longer elves in this wood why would he say such a thing? To his mind the puzzle pieces fit. Mithtaur had been angered to find them where he did and it seemed to Legolas there might be another reason for this other than just the tease of madness.

Mithtaur was hiding the elves.

Did he think Legolas was one of them? He had professed to be confused by the appearance of elves. They all looked the same to him, he had said.

Indeed, there was more to the story than what had been told. Perhaps Mithtaur had been trying to tell it all. But why would he choose Legolas to reveal these secrets to?

"I have to find him, Gimli," Legolas said again, feeling rushed to do just that. "I have to learn the rest." He hastily began to march again in the direction the Ent had taken.

"I have already told you. What more do you need know?" Gimli cried as he raced to follow.

"I do not think those elves are dead," Legolas said, his eyes focused only on what was ahead of him.

"That is not possible, Legolas. Where would they be? Why have none shown themselves to us?" The dwarf said as he took quick steps to catch up.

"They are in Mithtaur's lands," Legolas said, somehow knowing it true.

"No, Legolas! They are not," Gimli disagreed.

"Lendglad does not know it. He would not know that part of the story because he was not there! But they are secreted away somewhere on those lands!"

"No, they are not!" Gimli insisted. And then the dwarf stopped and he did not dog the elf. "Legolas, I demand you stop and listen to me!"

Reluctantly, Legolas halted, waiting for the dwarf to catch up to him.

"Sweettree may not see through Greywood's eyes, but he knows the truth of what occurred. After the battle, once the storm came to an end, a fog came to settle over those lands. It was dense and dark, a weapon of the powers that attacked. It centered on Greywood's home. It destroyed it."

"No," Legolas said angrily, returning to his march, refusing what the dwarf was saying. "His home was a garden!"

Gimli ran to catch up. "So it was said. The tale was elaborate, I must admit. I have never heard a story so put. I felt I came to see it in my mind, so well was it told." Then the dwarf pulled on Legolas' forearm to make him stop. "I understand your sorrow, Legolas, but it is true. After that fog, all came to ruin. A poison it was upon those lands, and nearly all life there fell away."

Legolas shook his head, still not believing it true. "But Greywood still tends it."

"It ruined his mind, elf. He thinks it yet a place of beauty. By Sweettree's reckoning, there are still things that grow there, but it is a blighted land. It does not recover even after all these millennia." The elf frowned but Gimli went on. "Think about it, Legolas! You come as an elf to help heal these lands. You would offer your voice for recovery. But if there were elves already here, would they not have done the same already? Would they not have preceded you in this endeavor?"

"Perhaps they know not how! They are not wood-elves," Legolas protested, but he knew Gimli was right. It was innate that an elf be tied to nature. Noldor elves, as those from Hollin would be, might be practiced in the arts, but they were still inspired by nature. And nature was inspired by them. They would have influence upon the land just in their presence.

Legolas sank to his knees, finding it impossible to go on. He ducked his head into his chest. He no longer had the energy to argue. What Gimli said was true, and he knew it. There had been peril in the dream and he realized now what the outcome of Sauron's appearance had been. The Dark Lord had been the one who had created the cave in. He had made the lightning strike and given target to the assault of raining granite. He had sent the penetrating cloud of poison on the land and had destroyed everything that had been in the idyllic garden. He had ruined Mithtaur's mind and all of what might have been an incredible elven home.

There were no elves there.

Somehow that fact hurt more than anything else. Legolas knew them not, except for the brief glimpse he had been given of Celebrimbor, Narvi, and Faeldaer. But they had lived and now they were all gone. Fortune told of that end.

But then Legolas' mind stirred with new queries. What of Faeldaer's part? He had had Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. That ring had passed to Galadriel. Somehow. But how?

There was more to this story that he would like to know, and though Lendglad could share facts, he did not know of Faeldaer's part or that he had horded the ring. Lendglad did not know of the Rings of Power. Only Mithtaur knew that part, though how the Ent could see even that he was unsure.

"I still would wish to speak to Mithtaur, madness or no," Legolas said. "He has a gentle heart. I fear it has been his undoing."

"I suppose I should not have chased him off as I did," Gimli said remorsefully, meeting Legolas' eyes and coming to sit beside the elf.

"One cannot halt the nature of a dwarf," Legolas replied sadly, but he said it with a smile. Gimli's mistake was understandable.

"Ah, but you are wrong. Indeed, one can. My actions were one of a dwarf unlike any of my kindred. For had this been a time even a year ago, I would not have stood between you and one I perceived as your enemy. I would have let him maul you, and smiled at the outcome. You have changed me, Legolas, and I fear I will never be the same dwarf again."

"It is probably for the better," Legolas said, teasing. "You were not so great a dwarf before. But is that truly a thing to fear, never being the same?"

The dwarf laughed warmly. He could have made a cutting remark, but for whatever reason, he did not. Instead he said with sincerity, "Nay, it is not. In truth I am glad for it."

"As am I," Legolas said as he put his hand upon the dwarf's shoulder. And truly was he pleased to have a companion such as this, for Gimli had made him a better elf as well.

TBC


	12. A New Direction

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Eleven: A New Direction_

Gimli watched Legolas carefully in the days that followed. There was something changed in his friend, though Gimli could not put his finger on what exactly it was, at least not at first. Usually, when the elf was in his normal -- albeit flighty -- state, Gimli could anticipate song and merriment breaking out if a bird merely chirped; now he saw Legolas only giving pensive glances into the woods. There was no song in the days following the dream. There was no merriment.

Gimli tried to guess what was behind this melancholy. Legolas shared little of what had occurred in the dream, and for that matter he shared little of speech no matter how much the dwarf pressed and harassed. All he could deduce was that the elf was holding something back. It had all begun with the dream…

Not that the Ents noticed anything wrong with his friend's behavior. He was beginning to see their shortcomings, and as the week progressed, Gimli came to realize why they were so distanced from the world. _It must be the nature of Ents,_ he thought, _to take in the details of life so slowly. _He meant this quite a literally for examples had been shown of this ineptitude during the course of the week. For one, though the Ents certainly realized that the elf and dwarf pair were visitors among them, unless the two were standing side-by-side, the majority of them had a difficult time discerning which was the dwarf and which was the elf. Strange as that seemed, a near meter's height difference was difficult for them to discriminate. Sweettree seemed to be one of the few exceptions to this, and Gimli supposed this was why that particular Ent had been assigned as their escort.

In all fairness though, Gimli had to admit that he had similar problems finding differences between the Ents so he supposed it was a forgivable flaw. Still, it made it obvious that they did not really know much of Legolas and Gimli, and that was simply because they were not paying that much attention. That they barely noticed the habits and traits of this particular elf or dwarf was probably something they would not come to know unless the pair came to live amongst them for years.

Thus, it fell to Gimli to take notice and to look after Legolas' well being. He was fairly certain that without his guiding hand, Legolas would fall into another dread depression or else wander off into some mortal danger. The elf seemed prone to such actions without him and Gimli did his best to keep Legolas debating and arguing as the week went on.

After a time though, the dwarf realized the cause of Legolas' change. It was the direction of his cast eyes that gave away his friend's misery, for Gimli could see which direction of the woods the elf looked. It was always in the direction that Greywood had marched. The strange Ent had not returned and Gimli came to understand that Legolas watched for him day after day. The anxious expression the elf wore was telltale. Gimli was sorry then that he had chased the Ent away, for it hurt to watch Legolas wander the wood near the gathering, touching each tree as he passed. The dwarf had the impression his friend was trying to find something in them that would tell him the rest of Greywood's story.

Of course, Legolas had been told everything. At first Gimli had relayed the tale. But Sweettree's gift was far greater than his, and even the dwarf enjoyed knowing the full of details as the Ent passed them on in story. Never did it become tedious when the old, cedar-like Ent spoke this history. At the end, when Sweettree came to say how all had died and the land had fallen into ruin, the dwarf found he had to blink back tears.

Legolas had shared some of the story too. Privately he told Gimli of his knowledge of Galadriel's Ring and that it had been housed in the wood for a time, but he didn't speak it to Sweettree.

Jointly he told Gimli and Sweettree fragments of what had occurred in his reverie, but Gimli soon came to see that the dream was not like one he would know. Legolas had never spoken of such a thing before. The fact that they rested with open eyes was strange enough but Gimli had never thought elven sleep could get odder. That they could actually _live_ within the walls of a dream set Gimli to wonder. To war, love, and die someone else's life realistically within the safe realm of a dream was inconceivable for him.

Gimli, however, came to find that both Legolas and Sweettree seemed to omit certain details of their retelling, for as questions started to flow from the elf to the Ent, points he had not heard in Sweettree's telling were suddenly presented and Gimli began to wonder if he had actually been listening to the same story.

The elf had asked, "What came of Faeldaer?"

_Faeldaer?_ Gimli knew of no such name. Yet he did not question as Sweettree easily went along and told of this _Faeldaer's_ demise. He came to guess that this was another difference between them. Elves claimed to hear things in song. It seemed possible then that he and the elf heard the tale as two separate things, and Gimli found himself nodding as if affirming this thought. Any creature who could claim the trees _sang_ to him obviously had powers -- or delusions -- that were not of the norm.

"Faeldaer was not with those in the caves. He insisted they stay, saying it was Celebrimbor's desire they make home here, and it was not until the lightning struck and the volley of stone fell that he ran."

"He fled? That sounds of cowardice to me," Gimli dismissed without really knowing what he was condemning.

"Cowardice… _Hoom,_ I could not say," Sweettree replied. "Nay, I cannot. All that I might report is that which was told to me, for I did not see it with my own eyes. My battle was on the eastern side of the forest, you see, and that is where I fought. _Hooomhoom,_ Faeldaer was seen to flee across the plains to the north, making his way to the realm of Lorien. There were a great many of the _um-dûr-adanath_ -- evil-dark-men -- that followed in his pursuit. That too was told to me."

"You did not see his end then?" Legolas asked, his voice sounding hopeful. "You do not know the certainty of his death?"

"Not from my mouth have words of this passed. I may only assume it is so, for he did not return to the forest again," Sweettree replied.

Gimli decided it was time to seek a new topic. "Tell us of your battles. Did the Ents really wage war?"

"_Hooooom hoooooooooom._ War? War? No, no fight became necessary. For as soon as we Ents marched from the eaves of our wood, those fell-dark-beings fled, leaving behind only their war machines and their granite stone. We trampled upon those and made them dust on the fields."

Gimli chuckled, "The skills of the Orcs in organized war is legendary. They are weak when they are singled out or outnumbered. That is why they fight in packs."

"Alas that we Ents did not realize it sooner. Had we, we might have made ourselves known in quicker time_. Hoom,_ that was our failure I fear, oh yes _hoohoom_ it was, for the wave of our repulsion did not reach the northern face in time enough to halt the attack that occurred there. It was the only part of the forest they managed to hurt."

"That would be Mithtaur's realm," Legolas murmured, and Gimli saw they had again ventured into a dangerous topic. He should have chosen a less relevant topic. "Could the Ents not have stopped those who entered there?" Legolas asked, his voice suddenly accusing.

"We did, _hoomhoom! _None entered! The Huorn guards at our rim held strong," the Ent answered. Gimli had doubted Sweettree would have picked up the nuance of Legolas' anger, but he answered as if he had been challenged.

"One entered at least," Legolas protested without directing blame.

"Nay, nay, none entered," the Ent replied shaking his head. "There was no report to me, or to any for that matter, that the enemies broke through our line."

"Not an Orc. I thought Saur--" the elf began, then snapped his mouth shut. Again he looked north and then he dipped his eyes, waving his hand as if pushing the thought away. "No, pay no mind to me. I misjudge what I have heard." He winced, putting his hand to his head.

"Legolas?" the dwarf asked with sudden concern.

"It is nothing, Gimli," Legolas said, turning away from his friend.

"Is it sea-longing?" he asked but Legolas did not answer, and suddenly all the elf's gloom made sense. He realized he had not seen the elf drink of the draught for the whole of the week."You suffer. Why do you not drink?"

"I dare not. When we leave this wood I will not have the draught to aid me," the elf replied.

"You have it now," Gimli countered.

"It makes me drowsy. It is like a heady wine to me."

"And that is a bother because…?"

"I would prefer not to sleep so deeply."

"What happened in the dream, Legolas?" But the elf would not say.

And so he watched as Legolas' mood grew darker.

It was not for lack of trying that the sorrowful mood remained, for they had not been idle in their visit. As the week had progressed, they had journeyed to various sections of the wood, using Sweettree's realm as their point for return. Each day had been filled with new discoveries while each night brought them back to the ever-continuous celebration of the Ents who barely seemed to notice Legolas and Gimli's absence from the party.

For the most part they had not gone out on their journeys unaccompanied. Sweettree, playing host, had wandered with them. Gimli's sharp eyes and ears had witnessed Legolas' attempts to enter the maligned lands of Greywood's lands, but always he was thwarted.

Not that he was physically rebuffed. Sweettree was not so rude; he simply discouraged the act. "Oh no, friend elf, you will be sorely disappointed if you should go there. It is no longer as I had described it to you. The days of Celebrimbor's travels there are long gone. All is now despair and ruin."

So it came that their visit grew wearisome though Gimli could have made it linger. To his surprise, the dwarf found he had a surprising amount of tolerance for the slow, lumbering ways of the Ents. Unlike his friend though, Gimli had drunk the draught in plenty and his patience could most definitely be attributed to the Ent drink. However, even the liquid refreshment was not enough to keep Gimli entertained at festival indefinitely, and the elf's mood only made him feel more impatient to be done as well.

Amusingly, for the whole of the week, the Ent gathering went on. The dwarf had sighed in relief when the dancing had subsided. That it could even be called a dance, the dwarf was uncertain. To him it had been just a lot of the tree-creatures marching about, giving he and Legolas ample opportunities to be trampled. But rather than continuing their dancing, the dwarf was far more pleased to find that the Ents had broken into song instead. Not that Gimli understood the words to anything they sang, but the scene was much more akin to him of a tavern gathering, and that was a place in which the dwarf felt infinitely more comfort in than that of a dance floor.

Legolas briefly had seemed to enjoy the new form of entertainment, though Gimli had laughed when the elf had professed not to know the meaning of their songs. The dwarf had scoffed, mocking his friend by pointing out that elves were known to learn languages simply by listening to the cadence of speech. But then, after a few minutes of listening to an Ent song, Gimli came to understand. He saw this failing had nothing to do with picking up on the musical qualities of Ent speech and everything to do with how long it went on. After many minutes, the elf had been able to translate one word of the endlessly meandering lyrics. And after a few hours of sitting, Legolas had managed to decipher an entire stanza of the music.

That had been when they determined they would not stay any longer. It was the next day when the elf announced to their Ent companion, "We will be leaving, Lendglad."

Gimli said nothing though he had questions to ask. He thought his eyes might this and Legolas nodded as if answering him. "It is time we returned to our realms. Our people are in need of our aid."

Gimli knew this was a lie. Though the elf had told him little of what Mirkwood life might really be like, Gimli knew Legolas had no more desire to return to Mirkwood just then than Gimli had to revisit the Black Gates.

"So soon?" the Ent replied. "Alas! _Hoom hoooom._ The others will be sad to hear this news. But then again, we Ents have long known the outside world is a hasty place."

Gimli smiled. He could not agree more. Silently though, he went along with the ruse. They allowed the Ent to escort them to the eastern edge of the wood the next day. These were the land's the Ent ruled, but Gimli knew that once they were gone from Sweettree's company, they would be venturing into the northern woods. The dwarf knew that the elf intended to meet Greywood again, and for whatever reason, he did not wish Sweettree to know it.

It was probably best they were leaving, Gimli then thought, but he hoped they would not tarry long in Greywood's land. There was a certain dread that accompanied this journey and the weather only furthered it. Despite the season, the temperatures were growing warmer with each passing day, and it made the air still and stifling in this wood. Between the branches of the thick boughs Gimli could see a ceiling of clouds forming in the sky. To his eye they barely appeared to move, and even with his limited skills at predicting weather, he could tell a storm would be appearing in the near future. If they did not linger they might reach a sheltered place before the weather turned.

They said their farewells. Sweettree offered them free entrance into the forest whenever they so chose and told them to return soon as he expected Treebeard to conclude his place as a guardian of Isengard -- especially now that the wizard had parted his tower. It was strange that for creatures who knew so little of the outside world, they would know these facts, but then Gimli came to recall that the Ents lived by other clues. Perhaps a little bird had told Sweettree this news.

In any case, they were reunited with Arod shortly after strolling into the open fields. The horse galloped up to them after a few minutes, nickering his joy when Legolas. He even appeared pleased to see the dwarf though Gimli doubted the feeling would last long. And then after mounting they did just as the dwarf expected. Gimli had said nothing up to this point, but now that the pair were finally alone, he felt he might say it.

"I would hear the full of your intentions now, elf."

Legolas was silent for a long moment, "Do you not already guess our destination?"

"That is not what I ask. I know we seek Greywood. What I would like is to know _why_."

Legolas shook his head. "That I cannot answer with a sound reason. I would simply know more. Mithtaur knows things we have not yet heard, and I would like to know _his end_ of the tale."

"His end of the tale is that he was driven mad for his efforts."

"I am not convinced," Legolas said.

"Thus you must meet with him to concur?" the dwarf asked. Legolas did not normally act so impetuous. "Has not the evidence demonstrated been proof enough of his oddities?"

"I see no harm in him," the elf protested.

"I have seen harm!" the dwarf retorted brusquely.

"Nay, you have not!" Legolas snapped back glancing over his shoulder. His mood was acutely short and the dwarf supposed the sea-longing troubled him greatly. "Mithtaur has been gentle, despite your claims to the contrary!"

Nothing was said for many long minutes, and then Legolas added his murmured thoughts, "Besides, I thought you might like to see the place where Narvi came to rest."

The dwarf winced. Indeed, this was a tender spot. Ever since he had heard of Narvi's death in the caves, Gimli had felt his heart ache over the dwarf's demise. The idea of visiting Narvi's grave was exactly the reason Gimli had silently conceded he would go on. But to know -- this was sheer brilliance on the elf's part and it left the dwarf silent as he considered the ramifications of deciding he might openly agree.

Gimli could not deny that the thought of going to that place had occupied his mind lo these many days; and it was not solely for the purpose of seeing where a great dwarf had come to lie. By dwarven custom, the resolved mystery of Narvi's death left a crucial task to be done. Gimli would not let their journey sidetrack him from what he knew must be done. In dwarven custom, graves were marked. Dwarves were a people of pride. Kin took great efforts to preserve the tales of their predecessor's accomplishments. These were passed on, generation after generation. Homage was offered to those parted. Those lost to time were revered and loved just as much as -- perhaps even more than -- they were in life. Every dwarf planned and strove greatly that he might be, some day, enshrined in the same manner as those who had passed before him. To a dwarf, one of the greatest compliments one could give was to say, "Your tomb will be honored," which meant care would be given to preserve your memory in the centuries to follow. No dwarf wished to be forgotten. Evidence of this was obvious to any who had entered a dwarven hold. Dwarves were ever signing their works, leaving tokens of themselves, and making claim of their achievements so that all might know of them in both the present and the future.

Gimli wondered if Legolas knew all this. There was no way of telling for sure, for if he did the elf would act the innocent and deny it. And so it was left for Gimli only to smirk at the back of his friend's head. Indeed, Gimli would like to see where Narvi came to rest.

There was not even the remotest possibility that Gimli was going to let Narvi's death place go unmarked, even if a body had not necessarily been found. After all, for a dwarf to be left entombed without a marker was … a horrible slight! Even in cases where dwarves had been buried in inescapable disasters, a stone was carved and left nearby to commemorate that loss. Such was needed for Narvi's grave, and now that Gimli knew where it was, there was only this to do. The thought that Narvi's family had been left not to know almost hurt. Surely a shrine had been erected to him somewhere, but to never know the place of his death? He imagined their sorrow as he realized he must seek out those, if any, who might still be living in Narvi's bloodline and tell them of their ancestor's fate. But that was another day's task, and he had yet today's to accomplish. Thus, there was no doubt in Gimli's mind that he would go with Legolas into Greywood's lands. But Legolas did not know this.

To his mind, if the elf wished him to come, he would turn the moment to his favor.

"And what might you barter that I should go?" Gimli asked with a grim smirk.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder, and Gimli could see the light spark in the elf's eyes. _Ah, so he smiles_, the dwarf thought. And indeed, Legolas appeared to brighten with the promise of this banter. "Bargaining, dwarf? I thought you might _like_ to go. Besides, we had already made our agreements," the elf replied with a teasing lilt in his voice. It was good to hear the sound of it after what seemed so long a spell.

Gimli tried to hide his smile in a gruff reply. "We had agreed upon visiting Anglarond in exchange for visiting Fangorn. That bargain has been fulfilled. Now we strike a new accord," the dwarf answered.

"But we are not finished with Fangorn," Legolas protested, yet it was quite clear that Legolas knew the dwarf wanted to go. It was also quite clear that he would play along as if the dwarf did not.

"Hmm," Gimli said smiling without being able to contain it. He turned his head about in an exaggerated fashion so that Legolas might perceive his motions, "It seems to me that we have departed Fangorn Forest. I would say then that our agreement has been fulfilled."

The elf drew out a long hum as if considering this. "And what might you ask in order to return to the forest?" Legolas asked, turning his head slightly with the question. Gimli knew it was because he wished to see the dwarf's reply.

Gimli did not have to think hard on what he wished as exchange. "I would have you tell me what of the dream you are not telling me," he quickly stated. And suddenly the mirth was gone.

The elf's face did not change, but neither did Legolas seem to breathe. Frozen, he said nothing for a long moment. And then the mood shifted in a controlled way, as if Legolas were considering his words very carefully. Gimli could see those bow-like lips turn up in a small smile. "If there is anything I do not tell, it is the trivialities that are not worth mentioning."

Suddenly the good spirits were gone and Gimli found himself irritated. "I suppose Faeldaer was not worth mentioning," he said, angered that he was being dismissed for his part in knowing the name of Celebrimbor's steward. "He was a part of history."

The elf's face grew grim. "To you he would be just another elf," Legolas said, turning in his seat so his face was no longer visible. Gimli noticed then how the weight of the grey skies seemed to dim the elf's color, darkening his hair and washing out his pallor. "I did not think you would care to know," he completed.

"About an elf who was entwined in the death of Narvi? Yes, I would want to know of him… Is that what you kept hidden? I would call you a liar if you said it so, for I think there were other things in the dream you have not told me. What were they?" Gimli demanded.

"Nothing of consequence was mentioned, dwarf," Legolas murmured resignedly.

"Yet so saying you admit at least something was mentioned."

"Of course something was mentioned, just nothing worth repeating," the elf answered with irritation.

The dwarf would not be so easily dismissed. "Amuse me. I'm eager to hear this trivial dialogue," he badgered.

The elf sighed in frustration. "There was nothing," he defended. "Only a mention of my father was made -- and that is hardly worth noting given all that was said about the Ring of Adamant."

"Ha! There it is! There! Now the truth is revealed!" Gimli cheered.

"What truth? The Ring? I had told you of that already."

The dwarf continued, ignoring the elf's confusion by believing it feigned. "Deny it if you will, elf, but the truth of the Ring is not what we seek. This quest is to find answer as to why your _father _was mentioned in a place where he had no ties. Now I understand why you resist saying anything to me about him!"

Legolas sputtered as he turned his head sharply. And though Gimli could not fully see his face, he knew Legolas was frowning. "I will deny it heartily! At least I will deny it being my chief reason for turning back into Fangorn. Truly I would like to know what did come of Faeldaer. Somehow he delivered the Ring to Galadriel. I would know how and if he still lives. _That_ is what I wish to know."

Gimli frowned. He knew better than to pry, but he could not keep his tongue checked. "And secrets remain, for you still hide truths from me. You have persisted in keeping him from me and I would know why. What was said, Legolas? What did they say of _your father_ in the dream?"

"Very little was said," Legolas sighed. "Truly, Gimli, have I not told you enough of my homeland for you know what the rule of my father is like? Why press on one thing when it has little to do with another?"

"What I press for has been an unyielding wall since first we met. You have spoken of Mirkwood -- this is true; but what I have heard of your father is little. And what I know of your home is nil. You have yet to tell me of the place where you live."

"Where I live?" Legolas asked, his voice falling into singsong, and Gimli could detect coy deception within it. The playful quality of the elf was back. "I do not understand. I live in the forest. But you know that. Shall I tell you of the beeches and willows?"

Gimli realized now what the elf was doing. _Typical,_ he thought. _Answer with non-answers in hopes that I will grow weary and relinquish the pursuit._ Sighing, Giml prepared for the wayward path the elf would employ as he replied, "You have sung songs to the beeches and willows plenty already. This I know. But where do you _live_ in the forest, Legolas?"

The elf paused a moment, and then as if casting out his answer, he stated, or perhaps questioned, "Amongst the trees? But that is what I am telling you, Gimli. The beech trees can grow rather thick in the groves to the north, but the willows--"

Gimli growled. Wryly he thought_, the trees are not the only things that are thick in that forest_. He cut Legolas off before the elf could begin describing foliage and leaf cover. "I know you live amongst the trees, for you abide in a forest. That would mean there are trees--"

"Not necessarily--"

"Do not interrupt me!" Gimli stopped him short. Legolas was getting the better of him and he realized that. But despite his irritation, he also knew this was the Legolas he was accustomed to knowing. He growled his reply, but he was happy as he did so. "I will ask it in plainer language so you need only reply with an affirmative or negative."

Legolas laughed. "That is not really necessary. You need only phrase your questions wisely, and you would learn all you need know."

"No, I do think it necessary, elf, lest I wish to have you dance about me with words for the rest of the day."

"Ai, but you take away the challenge by doing so. I was certain I could have kept you occupied for the entirety of our journey to Mithtaur's Lands, and still not have answered your questions," Legolas laughed.

"Thus my reason for changing the rules of the game. You think you are clever, elf, but I am wily too," Gimli smiled.

"Then my wily friend, let me be certain I understand…You wish that I answer 'aye' or 'nay' to your queries?"

"That is my intent."

"Very well, Gimli. I will tell you it is unnecessary, but let us proceed."

Gimli smiled. The elf was being cooperative, or at least it so appeared. But Gimli was no fool. Legolas would certainly be trying to outmaneuver him even in these simple answers, and the dwarf set his mind for the game. He cleared his throat and then inquired. "Aye or nay, is it fair to say you enjoy living in the Mirkwood realm?"

"Are we speaking of the northern regions, or the south?"

"North," the dwarf said. "I would think that obvious."

"Then I would say that I must forfeit my answer, for I cannot give the reply you would want."

"What? Is it that difficult a query, elf?"

"Ah, but that I can respond to…Aye."

"Aye? Are you saying my query is difficult to answer?"

"Aye."

"But it is not a complicated question. All I ask is if you enjoy living in the northern Mirkwood region?" Gimli replied, growing agitated. The question was a primer. It was not meant to be stumbled upon.

"You have set the rules here, Gimli; I merely try to answer your question," Legolas replied.

"Then do so!"

"But by what you ascribe I cannot," Legolas replied with a shrug.

"Say something then!"

"Very well. My answer then would be 'yes', 'no', and 'sometimes'. Is that reply allowed?"

Gimli wanted to scream. And at the same time, he was trying not to laugh. He was also trying to keep up with the answer. Legolas had just said, yes, that he enjoyed living in Mirkwood; no, he did not enjoy living in Mirkwood; and sometimes he enjoyed living in Mirkwood. He sighed deeply. The elf was indeed getting the better of him. "That makes no sense," he grumbled.

"It makes perfect sense, Gimli, for if I asked the same of you and your home in the Lonely Mountain, could you reply with an absolute answer. Sometimes you are happy. Sometimes you are sad. 'Sometimes', I would think is the best answer to the question, but that was not an answer I was allowed. I embellished, I suppose."

Gimli could feel his irritation growing. "Elf…" he grumbled.

"And further, the question is made all the more complex by the added detail of questioning whether I enjoy living in _northern_ Mirkwood. That is not so easy to respond to either, for my post is to the _south_, and that is where I live most of the time when I am in Mirkwood. So when I go to the north, I do enjoy living there, if I were to compare it to the south, but even still, there are good days in the south as well as bad."

Gimli could feel a heavy sigh building in him over the fruitless meandering the elf had just roundabout traveled. Releasing the pent breath, he said, "For the most part then, which would you say?"

"In which part of Mirkwood? North or south?" Legolas asked, and Gimli could tell the elf was enjoying himself in this game.

"North!" Gimli exploded.

"Oh, then -- 'aye'."

All _that_! All _that_ for a 'yes' to the question 'do you enjoy living in Mirkwood?' The fulfillment of Gimli's desire to know what Legolas' real life was like was going to be more difficult than he suspected. And harder still would be leading him into more of the dream. He needed to ask more precise questions. Still, if he could put the elf at ease, perhaps Legolas would be more forthcoming when the heart of his queries came to be spoken. For the moment he threw out another soft question. "And is it fair then to say the lands about the palace are grand to look upon?"

"That I would also affirm," the elf replied, and then he laughed. "Oh, I am sorry. I meant to say 'aye'."

"Good, good. See, we are making progress," Gimli said gleefully. If Legolas would just cooperate, this need not be hard.

Legolas shrugged his shoulders slightly, "Not really. You are not really seeking my opinion in this, only approval of your supposition. Not all may be found in these concise little questions."

Gimli sat up a little taller as he worked those words to his advantage. "Then tell me the whole of my original question so that we may cease playing Twenty Queries."

"And what was that original query again?" the elf asked, baiting the dwarf. "I seem to have forgotten."

Gimli gritted his teeth in frustration, but only a little. The elf was acting as he might expect, for Legolas had not forgotten the question. He never forgot a question. But then, neither did Gimli. "I had asked that you tell me of your home."

"Do you mean the house in which I live?" Legolas asked.

The dwarf thought about that for a moment. It was not quite what he was asking, his intent being more to find out about the king who shared Legolas' home. But for the moment the answer would suffice. "Yes," he finally answered.

"Which of them would you like to know of then?" Legolas replied, and Gimli found his frustrations starting to build again.

"You have more than one?"

The elf shook his head then. "Technically, my home could be all of Mirkwood, or one might even say all of Arda, as it has been this past year, while my house could be so little as the structure I live in or so grand as the entirety of the realm. I should tell you then that I make the forest my house when I scout to the south, for I do not live under roof then, unless you count the trees as my canopy. In that case, the forest would remain my reply. My abode however--"

"Back to 'aye' or 'nay' questions," the dwarf interrupted seeing the fruitlessness of Legolas' wordplay.

"It is your query, Gimli. I only mean to be complete in how I reply."

Gimli ignored him. "Might one say you enjoy your time spent under the roof of the king's palace?"

"You see, Gimli, here is an example of--"

"'Aye' or 'nay' only," the dwarf countered.

"But what if--"

"'_Aye'_ or '_nay'_."

"Nay"

"You do not like the Mirkwood palace?"

"I did not say that," Legolas answered.

"I am not deaf, elf. You did so."

"You asked if I enjoyed my time spent under that roof, and I replied saying 'nay.'"

"Then I must ask why? My understanding was it was immense, and quite splendid to look upon. Though I hear much of it is underground, it is said to still feel alive and fresh, like living in the mountain air."

"I cannot answer to that with an aye or nay," the elf responded, but there came to be edginess in Legolas' voice as well. "You ask a lot in exchange for re-entering a forest in which we might put things right for your kinsman, Gimli. I know you would wish to go, so why ask these questions of me? Let us just go back into Fangorn and simply make amends to mark Narvi's grave."

Did that mean that Legolas had conceded the game? That had been far too easy as far as the dwarf was concerned. But then he realized that Legolas was again evading the bigger issue. As much as Gimli did wish to put right Narvi's tomb, he also wanted to know of the elf's life, and specifically of his father. And so far he had learned nothing of these. There were facts that Legolas was hiding, and he would know them if he could. "You will not be free of me, elf. I wish to know more of you, of your home, of your family, and I would appreciate it if you stopped evading me. You have told me little. I think I am friend enough that you might tell me more."

The elf sighed and he dipped his head, as if acknowledging this fact. His body bounced slightly with the horse's trot, and Gimli realized, to his surprise, that the elf must have forgotten his place on the animal's back. It was completely uncharacteristic for Legolas always rode as if he were part of Arod's flesh, so synchronized was he to the horse's movements. But the lapse was momentary at best, and Legolas amended his rhythm as he glanced up. And then he spoke. "The palace has been described well. You have been told of its detail correctly. It is all that you say, and indeed, I find it a lovely place to enter. But essentially the question was not whether I liked the king's home or not; it was if I liked living in a palace. My answer to that was a 'nay' simply because I do not live in a palace. I live in a flet on the outer edge of the palace settlement."

And here was a truth revealed. "You?...In a flet? But you are a prince!" Gimli sputtered. "I thought--"

The elf's voice grew stern as he interrupted. "I have not lived in the palace since I reached my majority. And when that time came, I immediately volunteered my services as a warrior in military service."

"But...why?"

The elf turned back in his seat, glancing at the dwarf as if trying to guess something of him by his expression. He sighed. "You might grow weary of my evasiveness, Gimli, but you must learn to be clearer in what you question. 'Why' what? Why have I not lived at the palace since my majority or why did I volunteer for a military career?"

Gimli saw the point and silently vowed to be more select in his questioning. "Why do you not live there? Are you not welcome?"

Legolas turned back straight in his seat again. "To the contrary, the king would have me, under his guidance -- or so he would see it -- if I were to seek out the palace as my home. But I do not. I choose not to live there."

"And still I ask why that is?"

"He--" Legolas began, but then he cut himself off, and after a long moment he said, "He and I do not agree on many things -- the life I have chosen being one. He does not appreciate my skills as a warrior or a captain."

The dwarf knew there was more to this answer than Legolas would admit. "I would think he would be proud," Gimli offered.

"He did not choose my path, thus he does not take purposeful conceit in it, as is his wont. When we do see each other, we often argue about it."

"But you are of a reasonable age," the dwarf said, shaking his head not really knowing what that age was but guessing it to be great all the same. "You should be allowed to choose your career. I mean, in other realms, with other races, to live a warrior's life is an honorable thing. Would it not be so among the elves?"

"Yes, even among elves a warrior's life is something of which to be proud. It is even considered by some to be a place of training for a leader. My king, however, is the exception to that belief," Legolas replied. "He would dismiss me from my post if I would allow him."

Gimli had to consider that. If what he was hearing was true, he did not think Thranduil correct, for Legolas was a very noble warrior who would be honored in most any realm. "Why does he feel you unfit for military service?"

"I would not say unfit. He has never seen me at war so he cannot know. But he would want me to serve duty more in the same way he did, which is to say at a distance from the actual fighting. I would rather lead on the field."

Gimli knew what Legolas was saying. He had heard of this kind of military leadership before. He did not think highly of it. Marshalling the troops from the sidelines… it was a poor way to perform in battle… a means to keep a leader prettily dressed and only play to the role of witness to the carnage. Then again, Gimli was a hands-on warrior and he could never play a distant role in a fight. At the same time though, Gimli had never led a large force. His involvement in war had been on the defensive, which meant truly being in the trenches. As a tactician, the dwarf could see reason to hang back and observe. If a leader were orchestrating well, he could not be involved in all aspects. His people must fight without him. Perhaps there was some reasoning for the Elven King's tact, and he spoke this aloud. "I suppose he feels it is a huge sacrifice and a risky venture to have you fight. Were I any father, let alone the king, I might wish my son to be away from war too. Especially if he were heir to the throne."

Legolas turned his head toward the dwarf and the horse slowed. Arod's ears cocked back, as if the movement set him uncertain of his direction for the moment. But Legolas urged the horse again with a minute movement of his hips. Even still, he now appeared rigid and upset. He said, "I take my duties as a warrior before I take the duties of a prince. I would strive to uphold the promise of my people before I would work to fulfill the placid life my king would have for me, dwarf. I have seen many skirmishes, taken many wounds. There are none too many to give me cause to forsake my trust. I serve the southern sectors where I have fought the menace of Dol Guldur -- for many more years than you have lived!"

"I was not saying --" Gimli began, wondering at the abrupt shift in the mood of his friend.

"I have spent little time in the northern parts of the wood, but when I do come there, I spend my days in _my_ home, living as the Silvans do, not in the palace as a despotic ruler!"

"Peace, Legolas. I was only trying to reason his thoughts," Gimli offered.

"You make it seem as if you side with him. Hear me," the elf said defiantly.

Again Gimli was surprised at how emotional Legolas was becoming over what the dwarf felt was good progress in their understanding of one another. "I am not siding with anyone, but surely your father has a point. For one thing, would you not grow weary of fighting a battle that seems never to end?" Gimli asked thinking about how long Legolas might have been fighting his war against darkness.

He saw the elf's jaw muscles tighten and he knew he was treading in uncertain territory. Stiffly the elf replied, "I do not abandon my duty, no matter how incredible the odds may seem against it. I would think you would understand that seeing we just fulfilled a Quest that was even more daunting than waging battle against Dol Guldur."

"Oh, I understand, and I can say I am akin in my resolve. But I have not battled for hundreds of years as you have. Do elves not have a term of duty?"

Legolas cocked his head at this, and Gimli took that to mean he did not understand. And then he thought that elves, being eternal, might not know of a thing such as setting limits for time of duty. _How tiresome,_ the dwarf suddenly thought_, to hold to the same task infinitely._ "Surely once admitted into an army, you are not kept there forever?" he asked.

"You make it sound as if it I am living a prison sentence," Legolas replied, but in truth, this is what Gimli _did_ think.

"Explain it to me then," the dwarf requested.

"Life, I suppose, is not the same for an elf. We do not so much as look ahead as we do look backward and at present. Premonitions of the future serve us little good, for so much goes into shaping what will come. That kind of resolve is what goes into choosing what we will become. No elf is a warrior unless it is what he wants to be, and I will tell you, Gimli, all warriors of Mirkwood serve proudly and with faith. There are many opportunities that come for one to change his mind before one ever sees duty. But those who do choose it are true to the task. They know that a warrior does not quit. It would be like crushing our souls to take us away once we have committed. No warrior would do so."

"Perhaps not quit -- but retire? Do you ever retire your commission?" Gimli asked, perplexed at the prospect Legolas seemed to be presenting.

"Retire...? Nay. A warrior does not end his service. He remains a soldier until he is no longer needed as such."

Gimli sensed a bit of bravura in Legolas' reply, as if there indeed _was_ such a thing as retirement, but that it was seen as a lowly thing; it was something Legolas would never consider, this Gimli did know. A thought occurred to the dwarf then. "I suppose then, seeing that the war is done, your career as a warrior of your realm has come to an end."

Legolas said nothing, and the dwarf realized his friend was already quite aware of this fact. The slight stiffening in Legolas' back spoke of his agitation.

He knew he should change the topic, but his original question still remained unanswered. Gimli pressed on. "Now that the war is done, your father likely will be pleased. He gets his desire, and you bear no shame for being eased out of your military duty. There will be no reason for you to argue with your father now. Perhaps you might return to the palace then, and even take up a place in his court."

Again, Legolas said nothing and so he went on.

"You are a prince. I would imagine there must be something in learning under the king. Would it not be right--?" Gimli began.

"Enough!" Legolas snapped, and the dwarf knew he had stepped into something that angered the elf greatly. "When will you realize that I do not care about my status? You appear to be bedazzled by that fact, but I am not. The crown is like a manacle to me; I do not choose to wear it. And so that you understand, let me tell you that when I return to Mirkwood I shall ask the king for his leave -- the only other way one might 'retire' his service. I will part Thranduil's realm. I will not serve his court! I shall not live in his palace!"

"But …why?"

"Why, why, why? Nay! You ask too much!" And then the elf suddenly sped up the pace of the horse to a gallop, as if that were an extension of his anger.

Keeping pace with the clipped rhythm of the animal's strides was difficult for the dwarf. Bouncing about wildly, he cried, "Legolas, please!"

But Legolas' mood was foul. "We have no accord, Gimli," the elf said hurriedly. "I will take you a league or two further north before I turn back for Mithtaur's region. I can leave you there to venture on alone, or you can wait for me to return in a day or two."

Gimli was hurt. This was the last thing he would ask. But wrapping his arms even tighter about the waist of the elf, he responded in the manner he usually did when he felt he was being slighted; he yelled. "You might try to put me off but you will not! I cannot be batted away like a nuisance. You will answer me, Legolas, for I would know what there is between you and your father!"

The horse slowed then to a quick trot, and Gimli fell into step. The elf turned his head. In contrast to the dwarf's raised voice, his was suddenly low and dark. "What I wish to do will take but a day. What you ask in exchange might take me many years to fulfill. It took that long for my father's crimes against me to mount."

Gimli found himself deducing clues from these words. But then he realized this was the wrong time to play games with the elf and so he said, "Tell me one then. Tell me one of his crimes and I will stop taunting you."

Abruptly, Arod came to a halt. Legolas leapt off the animal and took a step away. And then he glanced down, and he reached into the grass. His hand pulled away a golden stone, much like the one Gimli had found the week before. Turning around he presented it to the dwarf.

"My father had something to do with this," he said, holding the rock out for Gimli to see.

"I do not know what that means. Do you speak of the attacks here, in Fangorn?" Gimli asked. He jumped down from the horse to look at the stone as if it somehow held the answer. "But how?"

"I know not, but I intend to find out," Legolas replied. "Mithtaur mentioned Thranduil's name, twice, in the dream, and I mean to learn more of what he knew. War came to this place when it should not have. Will that suffice as one of his crimes?"

"Nay, it will not," Gimli said with a frown. "It proves nothing except that his name was mentioned in a dream. Twice. I said I would hear what he did to _you_."

Legolas tossed the rock aside then and his fury was palpable. He gazed at the dwarf for a long, hard moment. And then he turned and walked away.

TBC


	13. Unforgotten

**A/N:** I have been tweaking this chapter for weeks and fear I will do it forever if I don't release it soon. So from the momentary coolness of a vacationing resting place, I give you the next installment of this story. Warning: for those of you who object, there is some serious Thranduil-bashing ahead in this chapter. I will ask that you be kind and stick it out with me. All I have been able to tell so far has come from Legolas' perspective and in my mind there are _always_ two sides to a story. Besides, I think Thranduil is a little ooc-ish here, but you will get a better idea of what is going on with him when we get to Part II. Patience.

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Twelve: Unforgotten_

Legolas kicked the dirt as he took steps to distance himself from the dwarf. He supposed it was only fair that his friend be allowed to ask questions of him and Legolas knew that Gimli was curious when it came to his personal life. But the pain from his memory was still there.

He frowned at that thought; of course the pain was still there. He was an elf, after all, and for elves memory remained clear for a considerable length of time. All recollections except those of Legolas' earliest youth were just as vivid now as the moments in which they had occurred, for elven memories did not soften nor did they fade. It was Iluvatar's gift to the firstborn, but Legolas saw it as his race's flaw. History had proven the difficulty elves had in forgetting, and forgiving. Wrongs were rarely looked past. Oaths were forever remembered. Guilt was not erased.

His eyes traveled east and he could see the mighty Anduin in the miles ahead. Beyond that was Mirkwood…. Nay, not Mirkwood; it was Mirkwood no more. Eryn Lasgalen it was now called, a name of the past, as if that alone could heal the tainted wood.

It was odd to think of it under different name. Though he had always known it as eerie Mirkwood, he had somehow grown accustomed to that being his home. Dreary and dark it might have been, but it had been his to oversee, and in that he had a certain familiarity. It was a battleground of eternal warring, but when one has lived his entire life in a state of war, one grows used to it as being somehow his.

Now it belonged to Lothlorien.

Legolas paused in his thoughts, swallowing his bitterness. The slight was not small. But it was not the lord and lady of the Golden Wood that he held to blame. They were merely recipients of his father's false judiciousness. Legolas knew that Thranduil had done what he had as a means to stab at his son. Would his father ever cease attempting to hurt him?

The devastating part was that, through this year's journey, Legolas had come to forgive his father. All those days of silent marching had given him time to contemplate and consider what he wanted. By the time they had reached Minas Tirith at war end, he had thought sure he was overcoming his old feelings; he was even somewhat homesick. By midsummer his elation over the newfound peace had him looking forward to returning to Mirkwood and to the court of his father. The old worries were gone. They could start again. All would be anew.

But then Galadriel and Celeborn had come as escorts at the wedding of their daughter's daughter and it was through them that Legolas had learned what had become of all the elven realms while he had fought at Aragorn's side.

Through them he had learned of his father's gift to the Galadhrim. And though the lord and lady of Lothlorien did not know it when they shared their tale, this information threw Legolas into a state of shock so great that he barely could contain his tears. All the progress made in his feelings was lost. He slipped back into his former scorn. Like a hood that hid all one's features, the forgiveness he had managed to muster was banished to the shadows of his anger.

Here was irony indeed, dark and brooding. It destroyed any merriment he might have partaken on the event of Elessar's wedding and had tarnished the last many months since. Now Legolas was forced to search for a new future for himself. Nothing had changed. The War of the Ring was done, but the war between Legolas and his father raged on.

But the thread of the deed was a fine one. Who could outwardly know by looking at this gift just how cruel Thranduil could be? None but those most intimate, it seemed; Legolas alone, perhaps.

Cruel indeed. How long had Legolas fought in the south to protect the lands in the northern parts of that wood? How long had he dreamt of regaining what was spoiled and restoring it to what had once been the claim of Silvan elves? How long had he thought that he might return dignity to his family name, trying to remove the pall of shame that bewitched the once-great forest?

All the fighting …all the deaths …watching his race diminish in the unchecked travails of war …they had fought for …_what_?

But how could Gimli understand this when even Legolas could not say he understood all of what initiated his anger? Even Legolas was not sure where the subtle manipulations began and ended. He had proof of nothing. There was too much to say to fill the briefness of a day. There was too much to make the dwarf even understand the feelings that filled him at this moment. Could he explain in simple words the hurt he took in losing what essentially had been his claim? Yes, the war had been won. Yes, Mirkwood had prevailed, but no, Legolas did not have a home to go to. And it was not even that! No, it was the anger at being coerced once again to do as his father wished that seared like a fire in Legolas' craw.

For so it was that long years had been fought by Legolas seeking to do just what the Galadrhim had done. There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that his father knew exactly the hurt his actions would cause. Thranduil knew it was Legolas' goal to see those lands restored, his goal to see them kept and made safe. He knew. And all those years that he had fought and been denied the manpower, the weapons and the armor needed to attack and destroy Dol Guldur. Again and again he had asked for it!

But then, perhaps, just perhaps, the granting of southern Mirkwood to Celeborn and Galadriel was an indication that the Mirkwood king was finally giving up some of his pride? Legolas really had no claim to it, for he had forsaken the trust put to him. It was indeed Thranduil's to bequeath as he so chose. Perhaps it was a means to forge new relationships with the lord and lady of the only other elven realm this side of the Misty Mountains?

No, it was not possible. Legolas knew his father better than that.

Despite what others might perceive of him, outward appearances could deceive, and Legolas found it a hard thing to imagine Thranduil conceding anything, especially to Celeborn or Galadriel! As much as he would have liked to believe the better of Thranduil's heart, Legolas grew sure that the resignation of Mirkwood's poorest segment was a sneering tribute, if anything at all. Surely they understood the meaning of the gesture. It was hardly a deserving prize, a land festering with orc stench and dark magic. And yet they were gracious.

Surely Thranduil hated that aspect of this game. But then the bitterness likely made the punishment upon Legolas all the greater. This 'gift' was a slap in Legolas' face as well as a paltry means of giving thanks. In the subtle weave, likely it had been done so as a punishment for Legolas' decision to follow the Quest, or mayhap even because the prince had made the life of a soldier his. _Ask your new lord what you might offer him,_ Legolas could almost hear his father's sniping words. And it was tempting to do just that, if only to spite his father!

Legolas saw it clearly. Thranduil was too arrogant to actually give true thanks in a meaningful way. It was becoming ever more clear that this gift was a many-edged knife. Each way Legolas came at it, it cut, and Thranduil could score multiple blows with one seemingly good turn.

Of course, there was also Gimli's point. The end to the war was reason enough to bring Legolas home. If he had no ambitions, the elf would have no choice now but to serve in his father's courts. Blindingly obvious, this was just another manipulation on his father's part. The king had tried many times before, succeeding only once, and the result of that trial had lasted twenty years before Legolas had finally deserted the task. Those had been cheerless days.

Still, the task now remained before him; if not a return to his birthland, what was left? And since he had no life to return to, that left him with the decision of whether or not he might part over sea. That had filled his thoughts much of late.

Oddly though, despite the call that came to him from the Undying Lands and just how enticing it was, Legolas felt something even greater: a deep abiding affection for his mortal friends.

He had to smile at the thought of them. Such was another curse of the elves. They did not hold their concerns lightly and their love ran very deep. Legolas could not simply say farewell to his friends and go on to a better life. Elves among elves could do this for they knew they would meet again some day. But with elves and mortals, it was not so simple. It would crush him to part and not to know their fates. He had to see their lives through, to the bitter end, painful though that thought was in order to gather the memories of them so he might always have them with him. He could preserve them and keep them in that. That was how he would survive without them. He would remember them, for eternity was a pointless endeavor if there was nothing to fill it. He would use what was the curse of memory and turn it to his advantage; he would make it his cure.

But what could he do to fill the time in between now and the eventual end of them? He could not live under their roofs like a feckless uncle looking for board. No elf could live like that. But he did not think it was within him to take up a tidy life in the new Eryn Lasgalen either. That he had decided to return there was more Gimli's doing than his own. It was Gimli who had become eager to leave Minas Tirith, and it was he who reminded Legolas that they had vowed to travel together after the War. Thus they journeyed home while Legolas struggled anew to find his place in the world. What was there for a warrior accustomed only to fighting the darkness?

Of course Legolas knew he should go back, if only to ask for the king's leave. He dreaded what answer he might be given for nothing he desired ever came easily, at least where getting Thranduil's approval was concerned. That did not mean Legolas had to obey if Thranduil should command him to stay. He had been willful before. Legolas had no ties to hold him subservient. But still, leaving with the king's scorn would be like putting a mark upon his name. None would wish to follow him. He would be acting alone, and if he wished to have elven companions from his homeland, he needed his father's approval.

But still, it seemed like another game, and Legolas was growing weary of political ploys.

But this was nothing new. Memory was his to live and relive, horrible though some of them were. Thranduil's conceit, arrogance, hypocrisy… all were spoken as echoes that resounded loudly in his mind alone. And try though he might, he could not be free of them. This was what elven memory was to live.

_"Such impudence! I will have no more of this! You will obey me or suffer the consequences of my disapproval!"_

Legolas winced. He had often heard such words said and a myriad of occasions rolled about in his mind to prove this truth. One recollection stood out above all the others however and his memory placed him in his father's study. He recognized what was to come there. Would retelling it not illustrate for Gimli just the kind of volatile being his father could be? Might his friend understand by this example what Legolas had suffered in his relationship with his father without divulging too much of the other pains?

_"I will hear no more of this!"_

He decided to tell. He had been a young commander then, entering his third term of duty in what amounted in mortal years to a few centuries time. Young though he was, he was a good leader though that served him little in moments like these. He was not quite as adept at maneuvering around his father's rages as he would be in given time. That was the chief thing he had learned in his father's courts. Had he foresight then, he would have known that it would have been best to silently take his belittling and then to do as he wished without his king's endorsement. Legolas' power was greater than he had realized, but he not yet come to see this then. Time would prove him better skilled.

"I deny your request! If you ask me to remedy your situation you are asking that I alter your life! Be wary, elf!"

Instead he had acted with the impetuousness of youth. He had been foolish then. He remembered thinking that he did not deserve to be spoken to in such a way as this, even by the king. And so he had spoken back, almost pleading, "You give me no opportunity to explain myself!" This had been a mistake.

Thranduil appeared livid, his eyes widening and his nostrils flaring as he snarled, "Can your duty not serve as opportunity? You should be happy with what you have! It is what you asked to have, to be given the duty of a warrior! I show you no preference! You have your orders, soldier. Now you will obey my command."

And Legolas from the present thought that, as usual, the king had twisted his words. The past Legolas though had only reacted with hurt saying, "But this is different. What I ask--"

"What you have asked has already been given to you! The circumstances change. I will sally forces into the breech no more," Thranduil had interrupted.

And so there was the argument, always the same. Always empty and confrontational.

Yet this occasion was different. This was far more important than on other occasions when the young elf had only wanted more supplies for his command, or permission to travel a different route. This conversation centered on a way to battle the whole of the darkness in the southern portion of the realm, and Legolas did not appreciate being dismissed. Little did he know that Thranduil did so with reason.

"Dol Guldur is weak," Legolas said, ignoring the king's denial. "Our numbers are large here in the north though few are soldiers. If you were to draft the service of the most able-bodied, with proper training a legion of elves could fight the menace that prevails through the Necromancer. I have seen this, my lord. We could win back our lands and push the enemy out! They are weak for the moment and _we could win_!"

Thranduil scoffed, "You would send a legion to their death? Where is the wisdom in that?"

"The wisdom comes in the daring, my lord. I think it is what the Necromancer would least expect. He thinks the Silvans would idly stand by. And they would if they were not prompted –"

"I would rather they stayed where they are now, safe and _alive_," Thranduil dismissed with a wave.

"You do not hear me."

"I hear quite well," Thranduil said glancing up to make eye contact.

Legolas paused, taking a deep breath. Here was the point when he stepped over the threshold. "Grant me this. _Father_," Legolas said using the term of endearment to get the king's attention. Less and less had he used this word of late. It seemed that was not lost on the king.

Thranduil's face softened. The stern expression faded, and Legolas could see a light in the elder elf's eyes. "So you call me 'Father' now," he said, but his voice was not malicious. "Do you think your familiarity might gain you persuasion over me?"

Legolas swallowed hard. His ploy was visible, but then he had expected it would be. What he was attempting was indeed beyond his usual endeavors. Did he dare appeal to the king as a son? "I do what I must if it will grant me your attention," he said aloud.

Thranduil laughed, as if he liked the bold answer. "You have my attention then. Do you ask me favor as the prince or as a soldier?"

Legolas was being baited. He knew it, yet he was unsure what his father was leading him to. He hedged, "Which will get me what I want?"

There was no immediate response, and Thranduil stared at the younger as if he were weighing the worth of that inquiry. At last he answered, "I would wish it from my son."

Legolas knew it was not wise to linger in sentiment though. "You will listen then?"

With the question, the king's eyes dipped. Legolas thought he saw a slight tremble in the king's hand but Thranduil immediately closed his fingers into a fist. He pivoted away but continued to speak, "I have heard you, but I fear what you ask. I do not wish to see the blood of innocents spilled for a land that grows ill despite our intervention. We do what we must, but I have come to accept that regaining the south is beyond our control."

Legolas' jaw dropped with those words. He had never heard his father say anything before about giving up on the southern portion of their wood. The idea was inconceivable to Legolas. "But I could reclaim it! We could rebuild!"

"It is not worth the toll."

"Give _me_ the land then and the people needed to take it," Legolas cried with passion. "If we act now--"

"Do you know what you say?" Thranduil exclaimed pivoting around.

"Surely you see what the darkness leeches from us? Why should we not grab the power while we can? It is a victory that would propel us—"

Thranduil interrupted him again, a look of panic riding over in his expression. "Do you hear yourself speak?"

Frustrated and confused, Legolas answered, "I ask for your support! I ask for your help to defeat our enemy!"

"Nay, that is not what you ask! This moment is exactly what you bade me to ignore when you took on the soldier's life as one your own." And then Thranduil was before Legolas, arms tugging at his shoulders. "My son, my son! What am I to believe of you? Which Legolas am I to obey -- the one who begs to be treated as any other, or the one who wishes to rule all my armies to the south?"

"I do not –"

"Shall I tell you what I think? I think you are not the Legolas who I have known as my son."

The disappointment was great but Legolas knew he had stepped too far and had asked too much. He should have kept with his original plan instead of letting his emotions guide him. He just wanted what was best for his people. Tears pricked his eyes. He rubbed his hand over his brow, palming his left eye socket in an attempt to rid himself of the unspent fury. He realized then how taut his shoulders and neck were. Shakily he asked, "Please, may I sit?"

Thranduil's gesture directed him to a chair opposite his at the desk, and Legolas sank into it. His eyes fell to his lap but he heard the king take the seat before him, and he knew when he looked up he would have to look across at the table dividing them. "It is not easy, this relationship we have forged, is it Father?"

The king leaned back in his chair and sighed. His eyes traveled along the ceiling, as if he were remembering better times. Legolas watched him as Thranduil fought with his own emotions at that moment. The elder elf's face showed how much these years had tried him. By the standards of Men he did not look old and would likely be seen as a man of early mid-life. Fine lines showed at the corners of his eyes, but he was youthful and handsome, with otherwise smooth skin and hair the color of nectar wine. His eyes were the color of cornflowers, and when happy, Legolas remembered them sparkling like the water in a pool. When upset, however, the shade of them changed to the hue of a stormy sky. But despite his ill mood, Legolas had to admire the fine face he saw before him. His father might not be of the noble lineage of the Noldor, but his features did not convey this. With a strong jawline and sharp cheekbones, the king was as distinctive and fair as Finarfin himself.

If only conceit had not accompanied these traits. Legolas could have admired the elf if not for that.

"Since you speak to me as a son," Thranduil said slowly, deliberately, as if he wished not to stir up any animosity by speaking ill, "allow me to remind you that I have long held the conviction that you have no place rousting in the trenches or on the field. If there is any difficulty in our relationship, it can be drawn from that point."

Legolas took a deep breath. Thranduil was wrong. Their relationship had gone afoul simply because his father did not wish him to be gone from him, plain and simple. But Legolas did not wish to contradict the elf. It would be too easy to go astray, and then he might come out of this with nothing. He needed to return to what he had planned for this meeting if he was to regain any ground.

"My command appreciates that I am willing to fight and die with them," he said cautiously.

"I am hesitant to grant anything knowing you would choose death if it came to you."

"I do not choose death," Legolas said.

"Fighting on the lines is to embrace your own demise," Thranduil retorted, his voice growing somewhat stern.

"Fighting on the lines is to prove I am an equal to those I lead. They follow me because I portray myself as no rival to them."

"They should follow you because you are their prince, not because they like you."

Now it was Legolas' turn to lean back in his chair and sigh. His throat felt dry and his head ached dully. Eyeing the half empty glass at his father's left hand, he knew he could have done for a drink. The decanter sat but a few meters away, but he would not go for it. He did not like taking drink in his father's presence if it could be helped.

His eyes scanned the room instead, glancing at the long table on the other side of the study with maps spread over it. It was obvious by looking at the documents laid there and the markings made on the translucent parchment that sat atop them that Thranduil, despite arguing against Legolas' plan, had put ideas of his own to paper and had been conceiving plans with his other commanders.

"How else might I have them follow me?" he then asked, knowing full well what his father might say.

"If you desire to be a leader, then do so _properly_. General as you might be taught to do."

Legolas felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. The security of their realm was at stake and yet his father wanted him to act with propriety and aloofness. He knew this was Thranduil's way. "You mean I should do so from the throne room."

"Yes," Thranduil answered, his chin slightly raised. It was an old argument.

But Legolas knew he could not agree to that. He checked his ire and stonily proclaimed, "Mirkwood could be whole again. It could become the Greenwood it was in ages past -- if only you would allow me to marshal it as I see fit."

Thranduil closed his eyes but anger edged his voice, "My father taught me to rule from the courts. My hands were not dirtied."

And there it was, Thranduil's sense of what it was to be among the elite. Prestige, wealth and quality all came from a gilded room in Thranduil's mind. For all Legolas' life he had heard such aristocratic drivel. The only thing missing was the term 'Noldor' though Legolas knew that word was lurking somewhere just behind Thranduil's comment. Indeed his father would never consider anything unless it was the way that the Noldor kings had trained their princes. A fitting contradiction this was, for despite his father's disdain for 'that kinslaying race,' he took every opportunity he could to emulate Finwë's line, just as Oropher had before him.

But for Legolas, class did not equate to wisdom. Within his mind, he could hear himself say, _"And your learning proved you a valuable general to Oropher in the War of the Last Alliance, did it not? I know the truth. Your military prowess led to his death." _But he did not say this, for he knew it would destroy everything he had come there for. Instead he whispered, "I am needed there. Every elf who can fight is needed there."

Thranduil reached for his drink, taking a long swallow as he allowed a minute to pass. And then he turned those blue-grey eyes upon his son and firmly said, "You are needed _here."_

Legolas said nothing. His father, as king, held his fate. He was powerless to overrule, or so he thought. But there were ways he could still achieve his goals if he only played his part right.

Thranduil spoke first and the gift was put before him. "I will give you your army, but I will do so on condition that you rule them from here. You will impose a general's will from a general's post."

It was what he had expected to come. In fact it was what he had been trying to achieve, but he could not show glee in obtaining this victory. It was, after all, not really what he wanted, but he had resigned himself to this outcome before initiating the meeting. It was a half solution to what really must be done, but it would suffice. However, if he could negotiate the terms correctly... "If I agree--"

Thranduil suddenly leapt from his seat and roared, "There is no 'if'! I _want_ you in the courts!" Legolas fell back into his seat, so surprised was he by the outburst. "Too long have you pushed off the task of being a pupil to me! I grow weary of our estrangement. It is time you came to learn what it is to be a true ruler."

The anger reared despite Legolas' best efforts to keep it contained. "What would I gain in the courts? The ability to listen to meager petitions and to play god over minor doings and fates?"

"And now you belittle me? I do as you ask! I do as you ask despite my inclinations otherwise! You spit on my gift!" the king suddenly raged. "How dare you?"

But Legolas had had enough. His temper got the better of him and he rose to stand as well. "How dare _you_?" He took a step forward, leaning over the desk, no longer allowing himself to appear a weak subject. "I put my life on the line for this realm day after day. I send my guard off into battle, knowing that some -- all -- may never return. At their sides I fight demons and monsters and gruesome creatures of vile malcontent. And from you, my lord, there is no praise, no thanks, no expression of pleasure at my legion's return-- or mine. From you I get only denials and conditions. Why? Why, Father? This is your home! Do you not want it safe? Do you even know of the horrors that live to the south?"

Thranduil sniffed, his voice suddenly very quiet, "I know."

Legolas could feel himself tremble with rage, his anger guiding his words. "I should bring you the heads of the orcs I slay to prove to you the dire prospects of what I propose. We will perish if we do not fight this!"

"Then fight it!" The king cried abruptly throwing up his hands, "Fight it, I tell you! Do not waste your opportunity! Draft an army! Forge the armor! Craft the weaponry! I offer you the tools to do it! Fight! But also learn while you are fighting! Learn how to do this under proper tutelage!"

"I will, but I cannot do it the way you would want me to. The Silvans…" he began. How could he make his father understand without causing insult?

He sighed, looking down. The bulk of their army was Silvan in race. Legolas had come to learn from them in the fields, and he knew them to be loyal and fierce. They always seemed willing to obey his command so long as it was of service to their homeland. And perhaps it was because he was kin to them -- his mother having been Silvan-born -- that they followed. But whether it was because of her or because of any merits he brought to his task, they respected him, as he did them. He fought with them because he loved them and he vowed to be as a brother while in arms with them.

However, he could never forget that it was his grandfather and father who had entered this realm and made it theirs by claim and claim alone. And the Silvans, surprisingly enough, had not fought them in this. To an outsider this might seem strange, but Legolas understood this. So pliant were these people that they were willing to let another command them. And at the same time, despite their easy ways, he knew that the Silvan folk had never really adopted Oropher or Thranduil or even him as their true leader. They had no true leader. All were figureheads to them; guardians if a word to describe had to be given. But their _leaders_?

Nay, Legolas knew their hearts. To the Silvans the lands were not ruled, nor were they; the forest was simply theirs to live in for a time, borrowed from those greater than they. And willingly, they were able to follow Thranduil's dictates to improve upon what was there, so long as he did not harm the wood.

But there was the part Legolas really did not understand. As far as he was concerned, Thranduil had indeed allowed harm to enter these lands. Evil lived where once it had not and that had come under Thranduil's rule. Still, the Silvans did not see it that way. To them the darkness of Dol Guldur entered without permit the same way that a storm might appear in the sky. It was a force of natural make, and therefore something to be accepted.

Still, he felt sure they would fight it with more enthusiasm if they were so ordered. They only needed a cause and a leader who would stand before them.

That was the king's failure as far as Legolas was concerned. With the distant generals he mustered and the flimsy might he empowered, Thranduil instilled in the Silvans the same enthusiasm to defeat the darkness as one might use to fight off weeds that invaded a garden. In Legolas' mind, his father's tactics, and the Silvans' natural tendencies, were not aggressive enough.

But Legolas also knew the Silvans could be fierce if so guided. They were not so passive or easily accepting as what his father might believe them to be. The younger elf saw a side of them rarely displayed. Under Legolas' dictates, the Silvan elves had fought valiantly and the scourge of Dol Guldur had been kept in check under his watchful guard. Legolas and his command had shown great success. Unfortunately, they were the one small glimmer of light in what seemed to be a darkened hall. The unmaking of their progress was that there were not more captains capable or willing to act without a direct order.

And here was the point that Thranduil had only hinted at earlier but that Legolas knew was to come, for the young elf had said it many times himself in the presence of his king -- it was not Legolas' desire to lead.

What his father had said about his bequest was true; he _did _wish to be just another among the warriors. He had no great ambitions to lord and were there another to do the task, he would gladly follow.

But no others had stepped forward, and Legolas knew that the task would remain undone if he did not take it. He looked to his father now. Here was one who had served the army before, professing wisdom where Legolas had seen none. This was the elf who should be leading them on the battlefield in their dark fight. But unless it involved wealth or personal gain, Legolas knew Thranduil would not be doing anything to 'dirty his hands.' He had already expressed his desire to let southern Mirkwood go.

He swallowed hard and then dipped his eyes. The gesture showed him effectively accepting the offer to do this as his father would have him. It would have to do. But at the same time, he found he could not speak. He felt as if a horrible weight had suddenly been laid upon his chest.

Thranduil smiled and came around the desk, clapping his hand to Legolas' back before going to pour them both drinks. Legolas looked at him as he took the offered drink. He could hear the king speaking on the stresses of running a kingdom but his ears did not seem to be working correctly. The words seemed hollow and distant. Thranduil then led him to the map table and was pointing out the drawn lines on the parchments that equated to the battalions of elves in the south. The pressure in his chest tightened. Was this how Legolas was to be taught to rule? To judge lines on a paper? Now Legolas was being put into that role. He looked again at Thranduil, thinking him impotent. The dread thought that he would he be forced to mirror what his father had done suddenly plagued him.

Tenuous fear gripped him. What if this were true? What if Thranduil chose things to remain as they were and Legolas were given only an empty title? Was there a point in accepting this post if he was not allowed to make the most simplistic of decisions? And suddenly he realized that was exactly what would happen. How could he serve if he could not choose his captains? Or command the disbursements? Or arrange strategic deployments? Or inspect the fieldwork? He would be handicapped, fettered to a place where it was impossible to move. The thought of that made him feel nauseated and weak, as if he had lost something very precious to him. Legolas absently put his drink down. He suddenly had no more thirst.

Thranduil had quickly downed his drink and was speaking though Legolas had not heard him. A question had been asked and it was obvious the king was awaiting an answer. Legolas blushed but the king laughed in an amicable way. Suddenly he acted as Legolas' dearest friend.

"Do not make me doubt your ability to take on this new role. Personally, I am beginning to think you have lived too long in the shadow of Dol Guldur. You do not speak as the one who I knew to be my son. I think this break from the army will be good for you."

"I am your son," Legolas whispered.

"Nay, you are not. But let us put that aside. Pray take what has been granted lest I give you what you do not desire," Thranduil said with a dismissive laugh as he poured another drink for himself.

And Legolas knew then that he did not wish the promotion or what was now being gifted him. It would not help his people. It would not empower him. Before him he saw impending doom. It closed in like a circle of wolves upon his home.

Legolas took a deep breath and then he said, "No."

"No?" Thranduil said, looking confused as he put down his goblet.

Legolas looked up at him, suddenly sure of his decision. "I will stay as I am. You are right, Father. Forgive me my futile longing. Leadership should not be mine. I do not wish this role."

Thranduil's words boomed with sudden rage as his hand pounded the table rattling the empty wine glass. "Cease acting the fool! I give you power! What else might you want?"

"To lead from the fields."

"That is not in the offering. You show me disloyalty!"

"If I lead, I should do so as best suits me. There is nothing disloyal in that."

The king waved his hand at him as if in disdain. He began to storm away, but then he fiercely pivoted back, "And I say not so. Your loyalty is put to test. You will do as I ask to prove your faith to me!"

"I cannot."

Thranduil's face was red but there was fear in his eyes. Legolas watched his features distort growing frightened by the fearsome change. "Your loyalty is at stake. You must! You must!"

Legolas felt fear for the hysteria he witnessed before him. "I should not have come," he said, bowing his head apologetically with the sudden desire to exit. "I am sorry. I should not have troubled you."

But Thranduil was not listening and was instead muttering rambling words. "I must reign this in! The land… I can concede this, but I cannot lose another …"

These sounded like the whispers of a madman and Legolas could not pretend indifference. There was something wrong. "Father -- ?" he said, stepping forward with concern.

Thranduil jumped back as if he were burned. Rage was in his eyes again. "You will do this! Do you hear me? I command it of you! You will do this or…" Thranduil's voice trailed off as if he could not bear what he might say.

"Father?"

Thranduil's face screwed up into a grim mask. "You will take this post or you will be dismissed of all your duties! I will not allow you to return to the field!"

Now it was Legolas' turn to cry out. "What?" he said. "No!"

Thranduil seemed to vacillate, his look hesitant. But then with a cruel sneer he said, "Congratulations! You are now a general!"

Legolas was shaking. He felt as if he had been struck. "No! I told you I changed my mind. I do not want this!"

"It matters naught to me! You have choice no more. Loyalty! This is proof of your faith. From this day forth you will serve in my court as a general and as an aide to me. That might make you realize how great the duty is you ask! And you shall remain at my side until you have learned what it is to truly rule a realm, just as my father had taught me. I should have done this years ago!"

"But I do not choose this! You give me no reason!" Legolas' voice echoed in the narrow corners of the hall.

Thranduil eyes were cold and hard. One step, two steps, he was upon his son. Without thinking, Legolas stumbled backward, remembering another time when his father had come toward him with that same chilling expression. With a voice that sounded more like the growl of a beast, Thranduil snarled, "_I_ am king. I need not give any reason." Legolas could smell the sickly, sweet scent of the wine on his father's breath. He knew it only too well. It sickened him.

Lifting his chin slightly in defiance, Legolas whispered, "As a general, it would not be right to question. But I am also your son, and there I must ask. Why do you punish me?"

"My son… " the king hissed as he reached a tentative, jeweled hand and stroked Legolas' cheek. Legolas dared not flinch away. "My son …" His eyes suddenly softened and his voice grew choked.

His father's fingers were tracing a line down Legolas' jaw and the elf could feel the slight tremble in the touch of the digits. The younger said nothing, keeping his eyes focused only on his father's eyes. He was afraid of these strange shifts between anger and fear.

"It is punishment for you to be with me?" Thranduil asked. "Oh, how have I diminished in your sight. Dare I force something on you that you do not choose? There is no valor in a proclamation."

"My lord, I would take it if you would hear my conditions," Legolas said softly.

Suddenly, the goblet of wine Legolas had discarded was being pressed into his hands. "Drink," Thranduil said and then somehow the cup was at his lips. "If for nothing else, drink for your loyalty," the king added.

"Father?" Legolas again asked, not understanding the request.

"Please," Thranduil pleaded and Legolas complied, choosing this simple act to appease the elf. He sipped slowly until the glass was empty. And then the king took the cup away and drew back a step.

"I do this for love, my lord," Legolas said, not wishing his father to think him a soldier only.

"And I have heard you out of love. I know your conditions. And I say this: I would have my son back," he said, and there were tears now brimming his eyes. They were pale blue and deep with emotion. The younger elf again grew concerned. Here again was that emotional shift, but now it seemed a moment of pity rather than one of spite or menace. "My son has been gone from me. I have not stood in his way. I could have, you know. I could have wielded my influence long before today. It has been too long that he has been gone!"

Thranduil then looked at Legolas as if he were only now just seeing him. Tears spilled from his eyes as he began to weep, "Ai, Legolas, I wish you back. I have missed you! Please, Legolas, come to me. I have missed you so!"

And suddenly Thranduil had Legolas pulled into his arms and was stroking the back of his head. "I have missed you. Do not estrange yourself from me any longer! Please!" And Legolas, to his great surprise, found he too was crying.

"Your mother would not have wanted this rift between us. She would have encouraged us to mend the wound," Thranduil was saying. And he was right. She had been ever the peacemaker between them and Legolas could imagine her saying just that. Further, Legolas found that he wanted, despite having his position and his goals so horribly ripped from him, to do just that. He wanted to love his father again.

"Father," he sobbed, feeling the weight in his chest lessen and using that to close their embrace even tighter.

And his love was there in the guise of his father – his _true_ father -- holding him, hushing him, making him feel secure, just as he had as a child. All could be remedied, Legolas thought, if they could just put their differences behind them. All would be well in the end.

"I have heard your words. I will grant you all I can of them. Stay with me," Thranduil asked.

Elated to find his father giving him his wishes, Legolas nodded enthusiastically.

"Do you -- You will do this?" Thranduil was asking, pushing Legolas' head far enough away that he could look into the eyes of his son.

And Legolas was nodding in agreement. Just then, in the heat of his emotions, he would graciously do all he could to please his sire. He wanted that! It was a joyous moment.

"You love me? You come willingly to me?" Thranduil encouraged, and again Legolas nodded.

"Then it is done," his father said with a weary smile as he pulled Legolas tight to him again. "I am so happy!"

Bliss was Legolas' for a moment. Lightly the whisper of his father's words came into his ear, and it was more the tone of them that he heard than the actual words. They were delicate and simple, wrapped in warmth, and Legolas felt comforted by them, locked in the embrace of long-lost familial love. He was joyous for the first time in too many years.

But then he realized what was said and that ease went away as dread came to paint the edges of his joy. "…It is clear why you went away from me. I know she would not want you to carry this. Please know that I do not blame you for what became of her. You could not have known how she would react. She would have wanted you back. And now I have your vow. You have bound yourself to me. It would have pleased her. You do it to make up for what you did, and I am happy. No harm can come to you now."

Legolas pulled away, suddenly shocked. _What was he saying? What was this about blame?_ Surely Thranduil was not speaking of his mother's death? But at the same moment he knew it to be true. He had the sudden feeling of betrayal.

"But do you not see that I love you all the same? There, there, my son. It is not so grim as all that! I can only grant you what I can, and for now that is only this title. But in time, we may see if more can come of it. In time you will return to the field. But not now. Now you will come to me and learn as I learned at the hand of my father. This is for the better. You will find in the end that I have given you a safer fate. I think you will even thank me someday for the lessons I am going to teach you," Thranduil said, wiping his tears away. "I think you will enjoy your time in the courts immensely once you become accustomed them."

The king released his son and walked away, making for the door to his private chambers then.

But Legolas felt no relief. He had conceded to be a prisoner of the courts while his home was doomed. Why had he done such a foolish thing? He would never be able to fight off the evil to the south now. He could see the future. Further and further the menace would spread, and further and further from Dol Guldur the elves would retreat in their fight, until a day came when the darkness covered all these lands and there were no more elves to fight.

And then a sudden heaviness came over him and he felt like he could not move. Sluggishly he asked, "Am I bound to you?" as he tried to understand what had just happened. What was his father saying?

"It is only your word that binds you to me. But I know you well enough to believe you would not renege. Of course, it is only for a while that I might have this, but it will suffice until I can make you see," the king shrugged. "What is needed has been fulfilled, and now my protection falls over you. I am so happy, Legolas, and you will be too. Give me my time. You will see."

"How long will I serve you in the courts?" Legolas asked turning back to the chair and attempting to span the distance to it. His feet felt planted to the floor. He desperately sought an answer that seemed clearer and less distressing than this.

"Until you become as I would have you," Thranduil said with a shrug. His voice was neutral but his eyes were again dark. And then he turned, the lilt of a laugh creeping into the edge of his voice as he left. He glanced over his shoulder and said with the twist of a smug smile, "I think she would have approved. Now you will see that I do not blame you for causing her death."

And with that, Legolas dropped into the chair. He had no more strength to resist or deny what his father put on him.

TBC


	14. A Distant Heart

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Thirteen: A Distant Heart_

"But…" Gimli stammered, "What does that have to do with reason for re-entering this forest?"

Legolas turned around to face the dwarf for the first time since beginning the tale. "You asked for something of the crimes my father perpetrated against me. I have told you one of them."

"But this forest…" Gimli said waving back at the wood. "I thought you might have told me something related to Fangorn." Legolas looked past him at the grey mass looming over the horizon. His eyes narrowed as if he were giving the comment thought.

"Perhaps," Legolas began, "There is more to it than just this. Perhaps it is what came after or even before that tells why I think my father has a relationship here."

Gimli nodded his head as he folded his arms. He rocked back on his heels. "Go ahead then," he prompted.

Legolas looked startled then. "What? You think I have more to say? You wanted one instance and I have given that."

"It did not relate," the dwarf shrugged.

"You will have to take my word for it that it did," Legolas replied, and again he looked past the dwarf at the forest.

Gimli simply watched him. He had listened quietly moments before as the tale had been told to him, easily seeing the distress Legolas carried with the revealing memory. He had dared not interrupt with any mirthful comment or teasing remark for it was clear this was not an easy memory for his friend to conjure. And because of that Gimli had been unsure how to respond. As much as the incident upset his friend -- and that in itself served to rile the dwarf -- in truth he could see the event as more a coersive manipulation by one determined to get his way than a reason for the estrangement of father to son. Granted, Thranduil's actions were harsh and his reasons were unbalanced, but hadn't Legolas attempted to maneuver Thranduil as well? He may not have been as adept as the king, but he had tried to procure a means of guiding the army. That he had fallen prey to his father's own attempts to manipulate just showed that the two thought much alike. More disturbing though was that Gimli knew Legolas to be a calm and capable judge of reason. He could not see why the incident was taken so emotionally. Cooler heads could have prevailed. Both could have approached the scene with more calm, and the dwarf had to wonder where that famous elven patience Legolas so constantly bragged of could have been in this incident? To Gimli it seemed that both Legolas and his father had rushed the subject and had pushed the other for a response too soon.

But at the same time, he had to acknowledge that all was not equal in the world of fathers and sons. Obviously there was more history here than Gimli was able to see in the short glimpse into Legolas' memory. It was clear to the dwarf that Thranduil had appointed a different set of rules for his son. That was rather typical, Gimli felt also. There were always higher expectations and greater disappointments when it came to those you most loved. And though that was a flaw that he put upon the elf king, it was an understandable one in the dwarf's eyes.

But the blame did not end there. Legolas had also been presumptuous, wanting and expecting so great a promotion, with conditions attached, as to almost demand it. Even if he had not truly wanted it, and he felt he was doing this for the sake of the people of Mirkwood, he had been too abrupt and bold in how he presented it. _Perhaps if you had only asked for a few more men… _the dwarf thought, _…Thranduil might have granted that._ Gimli dared not say such aloud though for the dwarf knew his own part in the roles layed before him. He was the consoling friend, the comrade to Legolas. The elf needed supporting words from the dwarf, not recriminations he had likely put upon himself over the many years in Thranduil's courts. Gimli knew well that Legolas was not shy in the mental flogging he put upon himself.

Nodding, as if agreeing, he sighed and hung his head. The actions were not words, but they showed well enough the dwarf's sympathy and sorrow. And they were also true enough, for Gimli did feel sympathy and sorrow. And thinking too on the final stabbing words in the exchange he changed his tactic and asked, "What did he mean when he said that she would have approved?"

The despair in Legolas' gaze immediately made Gimli sorry he had asked, and yet he could not have known how deep the elf's hurt was prior to the question. He had guessed that the reference was to Legolas' mother, but he knew nothing about the lady to discern the true meaning of the comment, for in that time before, in Hollin, when Gimli had asked of her, Legolas had delivered him only a disdainful glare. Now with all their pretenses and hostilities set aside, the anguish in the elf's eyes was the greatest Gimli had seen yet in his friend.

The dwarf watched as Legolas shook his head. The elf's brow furrowed into an expression of pain similar to that the dwarf had seen worn when the melancholy of sea-longing struck. There was nothing that cut Gimli so deeply as that. "It pains you greatly," he murmured.

And Legolas whispered in reply, "It feels as if it were only yesterday that her death occurred."

How did one address an ache so deep? "I am sorry. How long has it been?" the dwarf cautiously asked.

Legolas looked at Gimli, and though his brow did not smooth, his voice was of a reasonable calm. "She died shortly before I reached my majority. It was in the days when Dol Guldur had come to form new strength to the south, at the end of the Watchful Peace. I can mark the year, for I remember how intrigued and impressed I was by the number and might of the guard my father sent to do battle there. They seemed so fierce and powerful. I was certain none could defeat them. All I talked of then was joining them, becoming a warrior amongst them."

"She did not discourage you then?"

"She was… cautious in her encouragement. I am sure she realized just how perilous a soldier's life could be. I think she would have spared me that if she could have."

"But she did not deny you your goals," Gimli asserted.

Legolas' eyes were cast down. "She did not. She knew it was in my heart to become a warrior. She would not have held me back."

"So Thranduil's words -- that she would have approved his actions -- ?"

"Were said to hurt. And they did. I do blame myself partly. But I blame Thranduil too," Legolas completed and the dwarf nodded. Now he knew. And what was proved was that Thranduil twisted personal pains to his own benefit. That likely had something to do with Legolas' vexation toward his father's words and the subsequent banishment into the courts. In some ways, this little fact was more telling than the whole of the told scene prior.

"And you say you served him for some twenty years after?" the dwarf asked.

"More or less. I did not clock it, so I cannot be altogether sure. It felt to be a long time, even by elven standards, though twenty years would be little."

Gimli nodded, knowing that elves did not mark time the way mortals did. But he could hear within the sound of his friend's voice the trial this period had been upon him. Gimli had to agree with those feelings for after hearing all he had, the dwarf knew he would not want to serve under Thranduil either.

"But why did you remain in his service even that long? Was there an enchantment he put upon you…?" Gimli asked.

"There are no such thing as enchantments as you might think them to be, but there are bonds. An elf's vow is as good as a forged chain. We pledge our love, and that is not something easily broken, lest our hearts were to shatter."

"And yet you left."

"The bond was broken," Legolas said with a shrug as if the answer were so simple.

"How?" Gimli asked, but he could tell Legolas was not about to answer this. He supposed this was something the elf might reveal if he felt it right, but for the moment, the stubbornness of his friend seemed just as impenetrable as one of those forged chains.

Chuckling then to ease the mood, he asked, "With a temper and fury like that, why would you ever wish to bring me before Thranduil, elf?"

Legolas raised a brow in the direction of the dwarf, and the expression was a reminder of better times between the two. "You mean when we traveled north I suppose. I had no intent of bringing you into his court. It was my plan to sidestep the king as much as I could while you were within Mirkwood realm. And as for that, it is you who asked that I take you into the dark forest."

"I did, I suppose, when I asked that I be allowed to venture that path en route home. I thought, seeing that we are now greater in our affections than once before, it would be the better road rather than by the northernmost route. By the same token, I would have thought you would warn me away if there was trouble to be had."

"There is no trouble to be had for _you_, Elvellon," Legolas said with a smile that was quirked, reminding Gimli of the strange title that had been bestowed upon him. It had not occurred to the dwarf before this to think there was more to the honorary designation than just a name, but now that the elf had brought it up, he was beginning to think that he had been labeled thus in order to gain easier passage into Thranduil's realm.

If that were so, the dwarf had to make comment. "Do not look now, Legolas, but I believe you have used your status in granting me entrance," Gimli joked.

The elf smiled solemnly and said, "It is the best thing I have ever used my title to gain," and Gimli was moved. He did not doubt the elf meant the sentiment. Legolas' mood was too grim to be anything but heartfelt.

And considering how dark the elf was at this given moment, he did not find it wrong to wonder more of the sad memories. "How did she…?" Gimli tentatively began, curious now to know more about Legolas' mother. "I mean… Perhaps I should not ask…"

"Her name was Laeraniel," the elf stated, not hesitating to say at least this.

"Laeraniel. A lovely name," Gimli commented.

"She was a beautiful queen."

"What caused her death?" the dwarf dared ask.

Legolas glanced up, meeting Gimli's eyes as the words were said. "Sea-longing."

"Sea --!" the dwarf nearly choked. "You mean she died from the same affliction you now suffer?"

"She should not have," Legolas answered curtly. "It affected her harder than it need have. And it might not have had I acted sooner." This was voiced with such regret that Gimli, could not help but push aside his shock over the cause and focus upon the hurt that came.

"You? Alas, Legolas! Nay, it cannot be. I know the sea's effect on you! How might _you_ have prevented it?"

"My father would tell you I incurred it," the elf said, the corners of his mouth turned up as if to disguise remorse, and the dwarf thought perhaps Legolas somewhat believed it to be true.

"How might _you_ be held to blame? I thought there was neither cause nor cure for this illness."

"Cause…that does exist. You saw that in me. The cry of the gull awoke the longing in my soul."

"Aye, this I know, but for each it is different, or so you said. You told me you bypassed Galadriel's warning because a single incident might have no bearing whatsoever. How did you put it? That some may live on the shore for centuries and never feel the calling."

"This is true."

"But your mother…? Surely you did not drag her to the shore…?"

Legolas at least smiled to this. "Nay, it was nothing like that. For the elves who have not seen the Light of the Trees the longing can come from anywhere … a scent, a sight, a sound, through touch. Silvans though, tied by their love to Arda, seem not to hear the call as often as others of the Moriquendi. That is why it is surprising she was so strongly and swiftly affected. She was Silvan. She was a green elf."

"She might as well have been a fuscia elf in my mind; I know not the differences. An elf is an elf as far as I am concerned. I thought all elves were the same when it came to sea-longing."

Legolas gave a gentle smile. "Hardly that, my friend. The Calequendi -- 'The Elves of the Light' -- experience the longing little. The Laiquendi, however -- both grey and green elves -- are quite prone."

"And being Silvan, you are of the Lai…?"

"Laiquendi," Legolas corrected.

"Laiquendi," Gimli repeated, "… thus susceptible, I suppose."

"I am also of the Sindarins, through my father. We are a related kind and are far from immune. In some cases, when the affliction strikes, it is strong, and if it is not treated through the only known cure -- by ways of passage to Valinor -- it can shatter the heart. Silvans though … the Silvans are a strong race, despite how they are seen as the lesser of elven folk. The Silvans can hold out for a time, or at least it has been known that they can. Their first love is this earth, and that gives them strength to withstand the call. It should have given _her _strength."

"Is that how you experience it? Does your love of this land make it easier to bear?"

"In a way, I suppose, yes. Despite my Sindarin blood, I know it might still be borne, and that is the Silvan in me. I have told myself I will seek cure through departure for the Undying Lands when my ties to this Middle-earth make the hold here lessened."

"You mean when those mortal friends you have made during the Quest are dead," Gimli stated.

Legolas looked taken aback. "You are a blunt creature, Gimli. I believe I put it in a gentler way."

"My words are factual. We who are not immortal shall pass. I can live with that. Or should I say," the dwarf smiled, "I can _die_ with that? But that worries me none for the moment. My question to you is will those deaths not make your agony that much the worse?"

"If I linger in my grief, they will. But it is my hope that such events will only lead me to seek relief, and when that comes I believe the longing will be a blessing to me. The Undying Lands can offer me what I will need then. My mother, however, did not have that choice."

"Why was her experience different than yours?" Gimli asked, realizing now that they had gone astray from his initial query.

"Her denial of what ailed her was one reason; Thranduil's refusal to release her was another."

"Surely he did not imprison her like he did you within the courts?" the dwarf asked aghast.

Legolas sighed. "Nay, he did not imprison her." But Legolas stopped at that and Gimli could tell he did not wish to say more.

"The weather is turning," Legolas said solemnly, looking away as if to change the topic. "We should continue our journey. Do you wish to go back with me to Fangorn then?"

"Do not try to evade my query, Legolas. I would like to know of your mother first."

"And I believe I have done my part in fulfilling our agreement. I told you a crime my father had committed. You said nothing of my mother in your bargaining."

"I reserve the right to embellish on my agreements," the dwarf shrugged.

"We never made such an accord. We should leave now, for I would wish to be in Lothlorien when the rain finally comes," Legolas said, ignoring him.

"Then desert this mission and let us go there now. You can tell me of your mother along the way," Gimli encouraged.

"Nay, Gimli, I am determined to do _this_."

"To do _what_?" the dwarf asked. "I still do not know what you seek."

"Neither do I. Reasons perhaps."

"Reasons for what? For your father's behavior? For his strange mutterings within your recollection?"

"You would admit they were odd."

"Everything of that encounter was odd. But you have told me nothing that casts him as being responsible for the harm that came _here_ -- other than his name being mentioned in a dream," the dwarf tallied.

"Elven reverie is not the same as how mortals dream," Legolas countered. "I sensed more to his involvement than just a mention."

"How do you know?" Gimli asked.

Legolas did not reply so the dwarf kept up the argument though he was uncertain why he did so. He could see Legolas was pained, but his irritation had been gaining ground, and he was tired of being evaded. He continued, "Do you want to know what I think? I think that you are latching on to anything that might incriminate Thranduil in the eyes of the world. I think you are angered that you are the only one who has seen the dark side of him and that you would seek reason for others to join you."

"No!" Legolas angrily cried.

"I think you try to bring him down because he did not give you ear when you felt you understood more of what was happening than him."

"No!"

"Perhaps you love your father no more and you seek reasons to spite him. But you must let this go, Legolas. For all his other crimes, Thranduil is guilty of nothing here."

The elf looked troubled and he dropped to his knees. He bowed his head and Gimli could see that he put a shaking hand to his heart.

"Legolas." Gimli ran to the elf with sudden concern. He put a hand upon the elf's shoulder and forced his friend's face up.

"He stopped being a father to me on the day that I left the courts. That is how I escaped my vow to him, Gimli. He would have had me stay so long as I loved him. But he could not hold me to a pledge if I hated him instead."

"And yet you say you still suffered."

Legolas' eyes were pleading. "Please, Gimli. It is too soon. It is too rushed. Let me tell this in my own way, in my own time. I will not keep it from you, but allow me to put some space between myself and the memories. What he did…" Legolas winced, and his head bowed.

"Valar, Legolas! What did he do to you?" Gimli cried as he clutched at the elf's shoulders.

"There is a reason elves are a mystery to so many. We are feared for our staunch fronts and thought mad for our flighty ways, but we are victims to what our hearts dictate and we cannot help that. An elf's love is great, Gimli. I do not think I can describe it fully, but I think you already know we are vulnerable in this. We try to protect ourselves, but we can be hurt by those who are dearest to us. Thranduil hurt me in ways I cannot describe, and I know it is better I distanced myself from him. And yet I cannot help but love him still in some small way. Why do I seek the answers to what lays in Fangorn Forest? I do not know. I would like not to think on this, to let the words in the dream go, but my heart tells me it is because I wish to heal an old wound and that I want to love my father again. I do not know if that is possible, but I would like to try if you will let me. I must go to Fangorn to find out if my father had a bigger role in the demise that came there than what lies at surface. I wish to clear him from my suspicions."

Gimli could not say that he really understood nor could he comprehend the full connection Legolas saw to his father in the tale of Fangorn, but he would wish to try. At the same time, he was witness to the toll this was taking upon his friend, and he no longer wished to see the elf's distress.

"I think we should go now," he said. "Fangorn awaits us. I think it is time we found out why Thranduil was mentioned in that Ent's story." Legolas looked up at him with wide eyes. Gimli went on, "I think we should learn the part he had in what became the War of the Elves, and also that in the forging of the Rings."

There was gratitude in Legolas' eyes. Nothing else needed to be said then; it was already understood. "Thank you, Gimli," was all the elf said, but Gimli knew the words conveyed so much more.

And then the elf stood, and thus did Gimli too, and together the two returned to Arod, who stood idly waiting for them with his head lifted in the direction of Fangorn. The dwarf had to smile then for the animal's senses. It seemed that the horse always had known they would return to their venture into the dark forest.

TBC


	15. Elf Song

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Fourteen: Elf Song_

They stopped at the edge of the forest that evening but they did not enter. Legolas seemed to be weighing any misgivings he might have about going forward. Upon looking at the wood, Gimli could understand. The trees were a thick wall of bramble and crossed branches, and though all of Fangorn appeared menacing to Gimli from the outset, this place seemed especially grim. There was a looming sense of doom that came from the wood, and Gimli could feel it even if he was not elf-kind. Of course, some of those feelings were due in no small part to the appearance of the trees in this sector. The winter months were coming and the trees throughout Fangorn Forest had shown the seasonal change of hue that predated those days. He thoroughly expected the foliage to wane at this time of year. That, however, did not excuse the way the trees looked in _this_ region. The forest here looked diseased, barren. Few leaves clung to the tree limbs, and those that did were a sickly brown, withered even. No green was there here. Even the lichen growing on the bark was crusty and grey. And were it not for the absolute density of the trees, Gimli might have thought the woods completely dead.

Yet despite the lack of greenery, the tree branches crisscrossed in such a deep pattern across the ceiling of the forest that little light breached their latticework. The fetid stench of swampy air permeated the lower grounds, though Gimli could hear the sound of a running stream somewhere near.

Of course, the weather did not improve the environment. The sky had grown greyer and the air, even on the plains, was oppressively still. An unseasonable warmth hung over the place to the point that, over the day, Gimli had stripped himself down to his first garment layer just to find some comfort in the oppressive heat. This was more like the weather of post-midsummer rather than that of middling autumn. However, it was not so uncommon that the dwarves did not have a name for days like these. Woserly Summer they called it -- in the common tongue -- and a name unpronounceable to men that they called it amongst themselves. And though Gimli was no elf, he could see a storm would be the outcome of the weather event. The mountains to the west seemed to be holding back the clouds, keeping them from passing in any direction and the still air felt of rain. Lightning buried within the cloudbank lit up a portion of the sky though the sound of its thunder did not come.

"There is no place we might hide should the storm break. Do you think we would be safe here?" the dwarf asked, not wishing to venture into the wood, but neither wishing to shiver the night away in drenched gear.

"It will not rain tonight," Legolas said. Gimli thought to question him but a glance at his companion told him Legolas was in no mood for playful banter. His friend still lived in dark memories and he felt for the moment that it was better he did not intrude.

"The lands did not look like this before," Legolas said at last.

"So you have told me," the dwarf replied, unsure what else he might say to this. In the last many days, Legolas had painted in the details of his dreams to Gimli, and indeed, to his recollection, he had told of a better place.

"Sauron caused ruin here," the elf added with biting disdain, and the dwarf nodded, though he still did not understand how the elf could discern this place merely from the telling of a tale or the vision that was attained in a dream.

Yet here it was, dismal and rotten, recognizable to the elf somehow, even in its sullied state. The dwarf's eyes traveled up the rise of the foothill forest. It was a brown land for the most part, but he could make out a place of green within it and he realized that what he was seeing was a copse of willows. With excitement he exclaimed, "There is the jutting platform, if the tale is true, and below would be where Narvi's grave lies."

Legolas inhaled a short breath, his jaw tightening slightly. But then he released it and nodded, the movement small. "Tomorrow you will see the tale is indeed true when we find it," he lowly said on a note of agitation. And then he turned and began the task of gathering wood for a fire.

Prickling hairs stood up on the back of the dwarf's neck as Gimli realized he had slighted his friend. Cursing himself for uttering doubtful words, he knew he would have to apologize. Eventually. He also knew from his experience that now was not the moment. Gimli was not certain if all elves were like his friend, but Legolas bore his moods deeply, and when he was grim it was nearly impossible to approach him. Better to wait an hour, or a day, or even a week-- most pointedly after the feelings ebbed. Then he could approach with remorse and an explanation for his slander. Nothing would help now, not when the elf was in the throes of dark misery.

He shrugged and watched instead the intent of Legolas' actions. Gimli then set himself to work as ignored the dour elf and between the two they made short work of setting their camp right. So practiced were they in living in the wild that no words needed to be passed to give them task. Legolas disappeared into the tall grasses and came back after a short while with two hares swinging from his belt. Gimli had made the fire, and he had erected a tripod of stones to use for their roasting sticks. A small pot, not much bigger than a mug, was steaming in the coals, and Gimli saw Legolas retrieve the chamomile and mint he kept in a pouch in his bag. A tea was soon steeping and with the corner of his cape used to lift the hot pot, the elf poured the drink into two smaller cups, passing one to Gimli wordlessly. The dwarf accepted it and sipped on the drink as he watched the elf season and spit the hares. For his part, he wrapped the wild onions the elf had dropped at his feet in the husks of a heavy-leafed plant he could not name (Legolas had pointed it out to him on their first journey over the Rohan plains, and they had used it many times for this purpose in the time they had traveled since). Tying them into two neat packages, the dwarf put them in the place on the coals where the pot had been a few minutes before.

The rising scent of meat and onions soon filled the dwarf's nostrils chasing away any malodorous clues of a boggy land somewhere within the wood. He realized that though the Ent fare had been hardy, he was hungry for meat, and he was soon salivating in anticipation of the food he and Legolas were preparing.

The meal was served without words; neither needed to ask of the other what was due, and just in the familiarity of their actions, Gimli could sense that his friend's spirit was lightening somewhat. That made the meal enjoyable despite the silence between them.

And the food tasted magnificent, just as Gimli had thought it might! Succulent flesh was somehow dulled of the gamey flavor oft found in the wilds. It was a trick of Legolas' spices, Gimli felt certain, for the elf used strange herbs in his preparations. Gimli would have called them weeds, but Legolas had a talent for finding and identifying those that would do well for their meals. He found them whenever he was foraging for food, and always they created a pleasant meal.

That could not always be said of the others of their friends. Gimli mused for a moment over the few times when Aragorn had been given the responsibility of their meals. When they had traveled in Fellowship such duties were split, just as those of keeping the watch or fetching the wood. Invariably Sam took charge of their meals, planning them and rationing them out, but the others had to help in various chores surrounding the task, and Aragorn had his turn at stirring the cookpot a time or two. From those days on, Gimli understood why the Ranger had a slimmer frame than he would expect of a man who lived in the wilds to have. No doubt it was due to the poor quality of meals he was forced to partake when he was left to his talents. The Ranger had a tendency to burn everything. Not that Gimli had talents at the stove, but he certainly could outshine the King of Men when it came to knowing when their food was properly done and when flatbread needed to be turned. But for all Aragorn's ineptitude over the cook pan, Boromir was worse. Anything he made, short of plucking berries, was inedible, and even berries had a tendency to come out squashed and overhandled. The memories made Gimli smile and to miss their friends.

"Do you remember the time Boromir took the task of making our breakfast porridge?" Gimli asked the silent elf. Legolas looked at him and an inquiring spark of mirth showed in his eyes -- a good sign. "Even Pippin would not touch it. And Pippin eats _anything_," the dwarf chuckled. The elf actually smiled at the recollection but he did not add to the converse. But neither did he hold to his forbidding demeanor and the mood between them palpably lightened.

Night descended, but the fire roared brightly. The cheerless landscape faded, and the blight of the foul mood seemed to fade. And with his belly full, Gimli felt contented.

He looked up to the sky and saw the moon break a place between the clouds, and briefly he saw a spot in the dark heavens where the stars came out. As if he could feel it, Legolas gazed up then, and he smiled at the twinkle of lights. Gimli could feel the elf's spirits lift, and without asking, he began to sing. It was as if Legolas knew it was something the dwarf had been thinking. Nonetheless, the soft croon of his friend's voice was gladly heard.

The dwarf listened for a while, trying to make out the words, but they were all in the strange, trilling roll of elf words. Tossing another branch on the fire, he eased himself back and decided to just enjoy the music. It made him think about the doubt he had put to the elf's recollections, and he regretted that. It was not his to question belief in such things but Gimli supposed it was the nature of a dwarf to be resistant. So it had been.

At first, when Legolas had professed to know true history from his dreams, to have seen all that had been said in words by Sweettree or Greywood, and to have lived it all in meticulous reality, Gimli did not believe him. But at moments like this, the concept did not seem so terribly out of the realm of possibility. In fact. in regard to what Legolas claimed, he found the same thing could happen to him, and it had on many occasions before. Not in dreams perhaps, but in song, and ashamedly, here was that example again. Gimli wondered if it was done for his sake or simply a natural part of elven makeup, like that damnable glow some of the higher elves bore. In any case, Legolas was winning his point just by singing, and the dwarf had to concede that the elf might be right.

Barely could Gimli understand a word of the Sindarin tongue, but always it seemed that he garnered a meaning from elf song. A picture formed in his mind and a tale was told. He did not know if he was actually right or wrong in what he imagined, for he did not like to verbalize what he saw, fearful of being ridiculed, but Gimli had to admit that a vision could be construed from the sound of his friend's melodies.

One could argue that any song might instill images in the mind, but for Gimli these were not just any images but whole tales, complicated and rich. They were told almost as a pantomime, a wordless image, but it didn't matter, for he understood the full meaning. And strangely, at this moment, Gimli was able to see a story he had never witnessed before and he realized Legolas was telling him something of himself.

The vision unfolded and Gimli saw a father and son of an age nearing manhood. They were laughing together in a merry scene of family unity, sitting at a table, teasing and playing, as one would expect in a loving relationship. Their furnishings were set on a terrace amongst plants, and it appeared that this ledge was in a garden of a beautiful forest. Even one who found less charm in woodland than stone, Gimli had to admire the beauty of the setting. With them there was a woman, smiling and enjoying their play, stroking a hand through the hair of her son, while touching the back of her husband's hand with a gentle brush of her finger tips and it was obvious she was the mother of the boy, so closely did they resemble one another. When she was not doing this though, he could see she was carving blossoms from fruit through delicate craft. Her long fingers twisted deftly as the long, slender knife turned berries and figs into the shape of flowers. All seemed idyllic and beautiful among them, and Gimli wondered the meaning of this happy tale.

Since there were no words, he focused on the reactions and moods of those in the story. All were happy and the youth was obviously dearly loved. But then slowly that seemed to change. Dully, Gimli realized the moon and stars were receding from the real world sky he camped in with the elf. It seemed to affect the dread he visualized in the tale.

A host of gifts appeared then at the table of the family though Gimli could not understand the source. The mother exclaimed in wonder at the many wonderful things that lay before her, and she and the son stepped aside to admire them. But Gimli focused on the father, suspecting that in reality he was meant to be Thranduil. He noticed a barrel of wine presented to the man, and true to rumor of the elf king's penchant for drink, the father was drawn to it. When he inevitably drank, Gimli could see darkness further descended upon the terrace. He felt as much menace there as he did with the clouds hanging over Fangorn. The father's mood turned inward and Gimli came to worry now at the meaning of this song. What was Legolas trying to tell him? If there were happy thoughts here, the dwarf could not see them now. But then he knew not every elven tale had a happy ending. His hope that Legolas' spirits were lifting seemed a futile desire.

Now the son was at the table where the father sat, and he was pleading with the man. The mother was sick somehow and the son was apologizing for it. That seemed odd, but more so was the father's reaction. The man was in a wretched state, angry, ugly, brutal, and drunk. He was looking at her knife, playing with it, turning it end over end and as he listened to the boy, Gimli feared what he might do with it, even though the son seemed oblivious to any danger it might pose.

Distant as he was, the father's wine-hazed eyes grew wide when the son revealed his decision to part with the mother. He claimed it was to seek a cure for her illness, but the man did not seem to hear that, and the dwarf read a look of abandonment in his expression. Gimli's heart filled with fear then when he saw the man's fingers tighten on the knife. The father rose, looming over the youth and his imposing figure dwarfed the poor boy. The young man was visibly shaken as his father launched into a tirade of bloody accusation and hateful words. Gimli sensed the lad had never seen his father act this way before.

The father stepped away and the son rose from his chair so that, Gimli supposed, he might meet the father's eyes. But the man apparently did not like seeing the boy stand up to him. He pushed his son back into the chair. Awkwardly the boy had fell into the seat as the father hovered above. The hand holding the knife stabbed into the chair to cage the son within. He shouted his curses into the son's face, and Gimli could almost smell the wine on his breath. And then the man pushed off, pulling the knife out with him and paced away as he raised his voice in a spate of fury. A second time the boy tried to rise and again the father pinned him into the chair with the knife. He laughed this time as he watched the boy's fear, but his face returned to its former fury a moment later.

Gimli felt that he was rather astute in judging mood and action. Admittedly, as a dwarf and a mortal being, he could be impulsive on occasion, but he also had the experience to know when a situation required delicacy and tact. What he saw in the elf song was a moment that required exactly that. The man had a temper that the wine had brought forth and what he needed was to vent his tortured emotions. Gimli knew many dwarves like this, and he knew well that after a time they exhausted themselves and eventually fell into remorse for having even raised their voices. If the boy simply allowed his father to waste his air, the scene would end quickly and the son could make his escape, or perhaps even procure the man's reluctant concessions once he had a clearer head.

Unfortunately, the boy did not have the experience to realize the potential for these results. He argued, thus elevating his father's ire. Worse, he stood his ground, arguing and accusing his father of selfish actions and thoughts. He did this as he again tried to rise from the chair.

Then the blow came, and it was delivered with rage. So swift was it that Gimli almost did not see it land. But he knew by the actions that followed that it had been delivered. The dwarf would never call it an innocent blow, but at the same time, the father in his fury seemed to have forgotten that he held the knife. Furious, he turned on the boy and this time when he thrust down with fisted hand, his drunken state caused his hand to fall short of its previous mark.

He pierced the chair in which his son sat. And he pierced his son in the doing. He had not even looked where his fist had landed, so angry had the movement been. But then he realized his action and he man immediately stumbled back.

Shock and pain were written on the boy's face. Blood poured from the wound. The young man's eyes pleaded to the father, but in his own state of bewilderment, the man continued to back away. Sensing emergency, the boy tried to pull himself free, rising and toppling both the table and chairs. The boy weakly struggled.

Yet the man was paralyzed into inaction, backing to the wall and finally collapsing to the floor, stupefied. Servants came. Some went to the son, others to him, and when they helped the man to his feet, he lunged toward the boy. He freed his son from the spike that kept him fettered and blood freely wept from the wound then. So much poured free of the body and scarlet gore covered everything. Looking upon the boy, the dwarf saw his pallor turn a deadly white. The father's scream rent the air as the boy's eyes rolled back in his head.

And then --

It stopped. Legolas' voice ended on an abrupt note.

_What...?_

Where was the refrain, or the movement toward a coda? It felt as if the passage were interrupted. "There?" Gimli asked. "But there must be more than that! It cannot end at that point!"

Legolas turned to him, his eyes glassy and distant, and the dwarf realized he had been living the vision just as Gimli had. Like the expression the dwarf oft saw when the elf pulled free of a sea-longing trance, his friend's face told of great anguish. His voice was broken as he spoke. "It did not end there, elf friend," Legolas said with a weary smile. "That is where everything begins."

TBC


	16. Door of the Vault

A/N: My apologies for taking so long to get a new chapter out. My muse took a vacation while RL worked its level best to keep me busy. But if nothing else, I was able to create a couple of short pieces that I have put out under my pennames of Ithilien and Anarien. Ithilien still lives on this site, but Anarien has taken up residence at other locations. See my author page for more information.

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Fifteen: Door of the Vault_

Such revelations did not come without a modicum of confusion, and this was hardly a minor disclosure. The elf had been holding his secrets as if they were locked in a sealed vault. Now, suddenly, that vault had been sprung open and its true horrors were set free, "What -- what was that you just told?" Gimli sputtered, angry to find himself in such a state of bewilderment. "Was that of _her_? Of _you_? What happened? I do not understand!"

Legolas' voice sounded distant. "I thought it a better way to tell you where it all started. You had been pressing me to know more of my life -- before the Quest." Immediately the dwarf called himself back from his temper, feeling anxious instead for his friend's queer state. The elf seemed ill somehow.

The moon was now hidden and the short break in the sky was gone. The stars were blanketed once more and the air felt heavy and thick under the canopy of the impenetrable clouds. Legolas turned his head earthward as he looked at the fire. Blankly he stared at the withering embers.

The dwarf leaned forward, absently adding wood to the fire, deciding it was not time yet to retire. If there was a story here he wanted to see Legolas' face. There was something distressing in the elf's voice, a mix of both fear and hurt. Gimli had seen Legolas in many states before, and even at his worst, he had never looked as shaken as he did now. Gimli needed to be ready and close for whatever might come.

And indeed there was trouble, for Gimli noticed now that the elf kept rubbing his hand over a place on his left thigh. _Is that where he was struck?_ "Forgive me," the dwarf said, wishing to evict the pale imitator that posed as his friend. He did not like seeing Legolas like this. "I should not have asked…. You obviously – "

"She died before I could see her again," the elf blurted out.

"What?" Gimli sputtered. The elf was becoming quite adept at surprising him with these bits of information just tossed out at random.

"After the…incident… with Thranduil, I fell into a healing sleep." _A healing sleep,_ Gimli thought scornfully. _Elves have such quaint ways of saying things that others might consider dire._ "I did not wake in time to see her last breath taken," Legolas completed.

Again, this unnerved the dwarf. Legolas' voice -- he sounded lost, weak. Gimli, in turn, was unsure what to say at news so tragic as this. "I am sorry," he murmured. The words seemed inadequate. He had a question. Hesitantly he asked, "How long were you…?"

He did not finish. The elf seemed to understand. "I was told that I remained thus for nearly a week," Legolas whispered.

The dwarf was struck dumb_. A week?_ Quaint phrasing be damned! Legolas had been in a coma! His brutish father must have hit an artery in his attack. Loss of blood; that must be why it took so long to heal. Or perhaps Legolas had been -- how did elves put that term? -- _fading._ "Your wound must have been bad," he stammered. Either way, there was likely more to the healing than just the mending of flesh and the regeneration of blood.

"I bear nothing of the incident, save the scar," the elf quickly supplied, belying the truth of how bad his hurt was. Gimli grew frightened again. There was something about his friend that was not right. He looked vulnerable, susceptible. The dwarf leaned forward in a gesture of comfort.

"Legolas--"

Fey eyes looked through Gimli, past him. "And even that is nigh invisible to all but those looking closest."

"Legolas," Gimli repeated, putting a hand to the elf's shoulder so as to draw him out of his reverie. "You need not say any more."

But it now appeared Legolas wished to speak. He looked directly at the dwarf then in his piercing way. "I think that is what I resent most. When he struck me I would have rather he had done a more complete job and slain me as he had intended."

"What?" the dwarf roared, appalled by this revelation. "What kind of nonsensical elven thinking is that? No one deserved what you received!"

Legolas cocked his head to one side as if confused by what Gimli was saying. The dwarf heard the catch in his friend's voice. "He put me to blame for what happened to her and he was right to think it so. Did you not see that it was my doing that caused her to succumb to the illness?"

Gimli blinked in return, frowning over what certainly was _not_ obvious to him. If he was baffled before, he was even more so now. He shook his head to negate the elf. "Were we seeing the same thing? I saw him tending his own needs, ignorant of what had come to her and his son. And then I saw him selfishly crying out for his own miseries. I saw a madman with not an ounce of compassion, flying into a rage because the boy -- you -- wished to heal her." The dwarf could feel his ire rising just in replaying the scene in words and mind.

If Legolas could have gone paler in complexion, Gimli was not sure how it could have been done. Even in the warm light of the fire the elf looked sickly. "But that was not… Did you not see?"

"I saw! How could I not? There was wine. Thranduil – the father -- coveted it. I saw that!" Gimli angrily brewed.

"But what of the rest? Did you not see—?" Legolas began, then cut himself off, turning his head away. "Ai, but how you perceive things is so very different from how I might notice them, Gimli. It is clear you do not know – you did not see –" The elf looked to the sky. He seemed to be struggling with whatever missed perception there was.

But then something almost magical happened. Gimli had seen it once before, in Lothlorien. When the elves there had sung out for the loss of Gandalf, Gimli had seen Legolas pull himself inward such as he did now. Then his words had been for containing the pain grown near. He was a warrior. He did not cry laments. At least that was how Gimli initially perceived his actions. But the dwarf was nothing if not a careful observer, He had seen then the strain Legolas showed in battling his heart. To cry tears would have been the healing thing to do, but Legolas had feared exposing his emotions so. Had he let them out, could he have halted the flood that would have followed?

Although adept at hiding what was within, even then Gimli had seen that there was stress in keeping such feelings contained. The vault doors were closed days but there were stress cracks around the threshold frame.

This was the dam Gimli had told Legolas he must use to stave the longing of the sea. But it was not the kind that would hold off the floodwaters pushing on the elf's soul. Suddenly Gimli was terribly frightened. This was why Legolas sought a task so great in the aftermath of the Ring War. He needed a counter to the heavy tide of his past. It was not just the sea yearning he fought but his memories as well. He sought a heavy weight to make what was within bearable to what was without. And perhaps that was why he searched so hard for a truth Gimli was only now beginning to recognize as a need.

He thought all this in the instant of calm that came over Legolas then. Gimli recognized it as a disguise to mask the ache, but it was still amazing to watch such poise being achieved on a whim's demand. Legolas took a deep breath and said, "I must explain." He turned back to Gimli and his eyes showed clearly in the red light of the fire. He was transformed in that moment. He was once again the infuriatingly stoic creature that the dwarf had met in Imladris. If Legolas was vulnerable now, he hid it well. "I should have realized you could not hear all the notes or understand their meaning. Forgive me for assuming so much of you. I will begin anew."

The elf's voice was even and calm and it was easy for Gimli to trust the strength in it and forget his anxious observations from only a minute before. The tremors and nervous ticks were gone. Here was confidence.

"You saw the part when the gifts arrived for the king and queen?" Legolas asked, watching Gimli for a sign that he concurred. The dwarf nodded and the elf went on. "They came from far off lands, and from a source I did not know. Never had any of us seen the likes of these objects. Some were amazing, such things of wonder! Silks, robes, wines, vessels, plus more beyond. It was a treasure trove gloriously wrapped in silvers and golds. Did you see this part, Gimli?"

Again, the dwarf nodded. He felt as if he were being talked to like a child, even though Legolas spoke without any real intonation in his voice.

"A letter came as well. It was addressed to Thranduil and it said that these tokens were sent in memory of a friend from ancient times. A _mortal _friend. He had died, I supposed, as mortals do, and the gifts were meant as an offering between realms. They were a symbol of the wealth the friend's family had attained, and how he meant to share his graciousness with Mirkwood's king.

"The letter said that the sender had also taken up new abode, and it asked that they could be friends, just as my father had once been with this one's ancestor in times past. Perhaps I should have asked then the name of this past acquaintance, but I did not. I was young then. I did not think of such things for we were not in war and I knew nothing of wariness.

"Lord Thranduil was hesitant at first. I could not fathom his distrust, for he spoke only praises of his old friend. Yet despite his hesitancy, I could also see that he was very taken with the gifts. They were beautiful and quite generous tributes. The wine alone -- there were some very special and rare vintages in that shipment," Legolas continued. "My father -- I mean the king -- had always adored wines. He was a collector of the finest of all things, and wine was chief among his passions. He confessed to my mother that his old friend had been talented in mixing the grapes to conceive great blends. He had honed his skill and made wine my father found irresistible. This he told us. So the wine you saw, it was only a small part of what he received.

"His friend's blend -- or perhaps the work of a grandchild many generations removed -- was what he wished to try, and I do not doubt his curiosity for what it must be like was one of the reasons he ultimately agreed to accept the gifts. I know he drank of it, Gimli, and as he did he remembered old times and happy memories. None could begrudge him this. He seemed happy. After a few nights of mulling the thought, he chose to accept the gifts. It was strange then, for his wariness seemed gone. It was then that he told my mother and I that his friend had gained a harsh reputation for he was a Numenorean who had lived in the dark tide that befell that distant land. He said he had not believed those old rumors true, though he had doubted for a time. In those few days his doubts had been banished."

Gimli listened to this but grew anxious. This part of the story did not mesh with what he had observed. The dwarf remembered seeing a more thoroughly bedraggled man lost in drink and none of this explanation of the gifts' source. But he supposed it was how he interpreted the experience in his own mind. He kept his thoughts to himself and did not interrupt Legolas' story.

"My father retired, and it was many days before I saw him again. By then the damage was done."

"He was too caught up in his drink," Gimli muttered, revealing the part he had seen.

Legolas' lips turned up slightly as he said, "Do you think? Is that how it appeared to you you? Curious you should think that, for he was not stingy with his gift. He tried to share the wine with my mother. But she did not enjoy it. She said the taste was bitter while my father, Thranduil, proclaimed it sweet as honey. She did not sip from his cup again and left him to it alone."

And then Gimli did recall something of the like occurring in the song as well. He realized he had paid it little notice at the time, but as the elf retold this part, the vision became clear.

"But there, I try to explain what you saw, and what I need to tell is what you did not see. Did you notice that the gifts were all for the king and his queen. There was no present sent for me, and being young I was hurt by that. It is silly, is it not? The greed and affirmations needed by youth? I felt slighted by the oversight. My father seemed not to notice, but my mother clearly did, and after conferring with him, she told me to pick any of the items offered to her as mine. My father was there when this happened, and with his nod of approval I did just that. I cannot deny that it is what I hoped might happen, as one of the gifts truly had come to my eye -- and so I took it."

Legolas' voice broke with these last words, and the dwarf looked at him carefully, sensing the wall of pressure mounting. He eagerly tried to assure his friend. "There is no crime in that. What did you choose?" Gimli asked almost blithely, as if to make light of it.

The elf paused for a long moment before finally speaking. "It was something simple really, but my attraction was stronger than anything I can now recall. It was as if I was compelled. I knew she wanted them for herself, but I was intrigued. She might have grown wary had she seen the lust I hid in my heart, but I think she was overwhelmed by the generosity of the other gifts as well and did not think long on my choice. After all, there were so many fine things to choose from. What was one among them?"

"What did you take then?"

"It was a box of tapers."

"Tapers?" Gimli had to stop to think about that. "You mean _candles_?"

"Aye, candles. Slender ones. Long, delicate candles. They were lovely, Gimli. Exquisite. I was drawn to them, They reminded me of something I could not name. I wanted them. In fact I had to have them, and had she not offered, I would have taken them anyway."

"That does not seem like you. What made them special? I mean, _candles?_ Really, that is so very ordinary."

"No, these were not ordinary at all. These were of a hue I could not name, for they seemed to constantly shift in their color. And the package was the same, iridescent and moving in the way light struck it. I had to have it, Gimli," Legolas said then repeated himself as if drifting on the thought. "I had to."

"And what occurred next?"

"I took them and I brought them to my room. I did not put them to flame at first. Just the way they came made them precious to me. I remember the perfume of them. It was alluring. It was magnificent. And the light that shone on the package… I could have looked at them then in that unlit state and been satisfied for all my life. But I wanted more. I had to wonder what would come when I lit them..." The elf's eyes seemed to grow distant and he stopped speaking.

Gimli waited, and when after a minute it did not appear Legolas would continue he cleared his throat.

"And?" the dwarf said loudly.

Legolas blinked, as if waking from a sleep. And then he took a deep breath before going on. "When I lit them… it -- it was not the same at all. I felt sickened suddenly. I could not tolerate the smell. There was something about them that…they smelled … Gods, Gimli, I know now that aroma. But then the effect…"

The elf's voice failed, and impatiently Gimli urged him on with a wave.

"It was the sea. That is what I smelled," Legolas confessed.

"The sea? _What?_ Gods! And yet you were repelled by that," the dwarf commented incredulously.

"I was. But I think now, in truth, that there was some kind of spell put upon those candles."

"Do you think?" the dwarf said in a voice laced with sarcasm.

"They were not meant for me. The scent was not meant for me to know. At least not then."

"What do you mean?"

"They were meant for _her_. They came _for her_." He paused for a moment, his eyes reliving the memory before he regained himself enough to go on. "And the worst of it was this: I was foolish enough to return them to her. I did not explain. I merely brought them to her room, as if compelled to do so. I left them for her use, as if it were by some royal command that I do so. I should have destroyed them; I knew there was something wrong with them. But I did not. I obeyed a whim that seemed natural and right. I never questioned that."

The elf became agitated and his fingers played with the fabric of his leggings. It seemed a nervous impulse. The illusion of control was slipping. "And so you see, Gimli, I caused her illness and her demise. My father was correct to strike me. I deserved greater harm than what I received. He should have slain me. There are times when I wish that he had just so I could lose the memory of what I had done to her," Legolas said. His eyes were dark with sadness.

"But the candles were hers. You could not have known what would have come to her, nor could she," the dwarf sympathized. Legolas said nothing and his silence told Gimli that he blamed himself nonetheless. "What of the rest? In the story, the boy – you—he said that he would take her to a place where she would be cured."

"I was going to take her over Sea," the elf replied without looking up.

"But that means -- You planned to join her in her in the Undying Lands?"

"Fortuitous for you I did not," Legolas said, glancing at his friend with a pained smile.

"That still does not tell me why you think yourself to blame," Gimli shrugged. "And why did you tell me before that Thranduil kept her there. Did no one realize the nature of her illness?"

The scowl on Legolas' face told of his anger toward his father for this action, "No, they knew. My father knew! For all the help he gave her, he might as well have imprisoned her! His cure was a fruitless attempt to save her! He sought the Healers to cure her, Gimli!"

Gimli did not understand the resentment. Sarcastically he replied, "Healers! A cruel choice indeed!"

But Legolas saw no humor. "Mock me, but it was cruel! You said yourself that there is no known cure for the sea-longing, and aside from departure for the Undying Lands, there truly is none! No Healer can mend a heart torn by that yearning, and none could heal her. But Thranduil would not hear of surrender. He chose i_gnorance_ over cure! He felt sure, as some said, that she should stay! Being Silvan, they said, she could last it out…" Legolas' voice trailed off.

"But what of her? Could she not realize her illness?"

"In the end, nay, she could not. She was too bereft to do anything more than mourn, Her heart broke over something she had never seen and she was too weakened by the shearing of it to realize she had a choice. The sea-longing made her incapable of doing anything."

"I still do not understand how that became your failure?"

Legolas' voice fell to a whisper. "He found the candles. In her room, he saw them when he discovered her. He would have known they were mine when he found them. He saw me choose them, and he knew I must have been the one to return them."

Gimli looked at Legolas curiously wondering again if they had experienced the same song. He squinted his eyes and quizzically asked, "Do you really think it so? It seemed to me he was so wrapped up in his wine and his memories that he barely paid any notice at all to you or to her. And even still, how would he know the candles were the cause."

Legolas seemed to dismiss this. "I confessed it to him."

Gimli was struck dumb for a moment. The elf need not have said anything. But he supposed it was his nature to do so, and the dwarf realized had he not, Legolas likely would have borne the guilt of hiding the truth from his father. Still, the crime did not fit the punishment. "And for this he stabbed you, Legolas?"

Legolas nodded and Gimli threw up his hands. There was no relief from the ache Legolas bore and the dwarf felt no choice but to express his own anger. "You were a victim! He had no right to hold you to blame for that. After all, it was he who actually chose to accept gifts from a complete stranger!"

The elf looked at Gimli, but he did not speak for a long moment. "I was going to leave him. Do you see? He did not want me to go. Or her."

"But he stabbed you! Was that not a rather harsh way to hold you back?" Gimli said incredulously.

"Were it my love being torn from me, I might have done the same."

"You would have stabbed him? I think not," the dwarf scoffed.

"Had the knife been in my hand, I might have turned it on him, Gimli."

"You are not capable of such things, Legolas!"

"She was my _mother_ and she was _dying_!" the elf suddenly raged. "He kept her from the thing that might have allowed her to live!"

The dwarf allowed the words to hang in the air for a long minute before murmuring his reply. "So now we get to the heart of it," Gimli said, meeting the elf's eyes.

"Perhaps I have said enough," Legolas whispered casting his eyes away.

"I think you only now begin to tell me what _must _be said!" the dwarf blustered, suddenly angered at his friend for finding a means to hide and to blame himself for this, or even to find excuse for his father's actions. Legolas was correct on one account. His history with his father was indeed complicated.

"I do not hold him to blame for my wound, only for what he did to her."

But the fingers playing a nervous pattern over his leg belied this statement. Gimli nodded toward the hand as he said, "I think there is more to your history than this."

At least to this Legolas nodded. "This is but one small incident, Gimli."

_One small incident? There was more?_

The elf's eyes briefly caught his and Gimli felt horribly guilty for having brought this to the light. And at the same time, he tried to digest it all, trying to remain calm in the face of the rage that seemed to be building up as a terrible force within his chest. How could a father do such harm? It was tragic -- all of it! His hate for the elf king was now suddenly great. Thranduil had hurt his friend! That was unforgiveable! No wonder Legolas had harbored such resentment at the front end of their journey.

But the part that seemed worse was what Legolas' eyes now spoke; he had not been availed to her when she died. Thinking it through, this would have been a horrible ache. The elf had been so young then. If comparable to dwarves, this was a point when Legolas likely would not have known the affections of a love other than that of a mother or father. To lose either at that age would have been a wretched blow. Akin to a lover but without the intimacy of that expression, his mother would have been a strong center in his life. The pain of losing her would have been almost the same as that of a child losing said same. Worse in fact, for he would not have the resiliency that distraction offered in smaller ones. Children flitted through activity, be they pained or joyous. They had a gift for healing. But for a young adult, such escape would not have been availed.

At least, Gimli thought, when his mother had died, he had been a fully-grown dwarf. He had already known love beyond his mother and father, and he was not reliant upon them -- her -- to fortify his heart any longer. Yet the tragedy of her death had been intense all the same. In the ways of elves, Legolas had been so much the younger when his mother had died.

And then there was this. Legolas' mother had died before he could say his farewells. Even more than the injuries his father had caused, Gimli could see that for the elf that was the worst hurt of all. He could see now, in Legolas' eyes, that indeed he wished his father might have slain him. At least then he would have gone with her to that place elves go to when they part this world.

And even more so, Gimli thought, had he been slain, he would have been spared what was to come at the hands of his father next. Though Gimli did not know what that was, he pondered the possibilities. Was it wise to pursue this?

He gazed at Legolas again. The elf looked crestfallen in the sparking light. The stresscracks at the door of the vault were showing. A torrent flood seemed to be looming on the other side of this wall. 'Dam the river,' Gimli had advised Legolas in what seemed such a long time back, when they had been speaking of the pain in his elf friend's heart. Now he thought perhaps it might be better to let the river flow free.

TBC


	17. Phantom Touch

**A/N:** Don't faint. I know it has been a long time. A _very long time_. And though my muses have been terribly AWFUL to me, I've never given up on this story. Nor do I intend to drop it either. I know how it ends and the journey it takes to get there. I will see it done. Somehow. In fact, I will make this promise to you now that, even if it takes me the rest of my years to complete it (gods forbid!), I will not leave this story hanging. There. Maybe that will make it all worthwhile. Now go read. You've been waiting for it, I know you have. Enjoy!

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Sixteen: Phantom Touch_

This was an agony. Legolas realized he was very nearly telling the dwarf everything, and the direction their conversation was headed was not in a place he wished to explore. Gimli was not a fool. He would piece together all that Legolas had inferred and he would question the rest.

He had said enough. All he had meant to do was ease out of his friend's questions. He had not expected the dwarf to ask more.

The elf put his hand to his head. It ached and he could hear the distant call of the sea beyond the pain. The memories were rolling through it, riding on waves, and it was hard to keep all out of the periphery of his awareness. He looked to the sky but the stars were not visible. The stars always served to calm him on clearer eves. He wished it would rain so that he might see the sky again. Even by day, the clouds created a leaden ceiling and he felt trapped in the growing oppression they made. The air was heavy and liquid, and though night, his breathing was labored by the weight of it. It was like breathing under water. It was one more pressure upon him.

"Legolas," Gimli said with concern. He needed to say something to lessen the situation. He could see the elf was shaken and he wished to remedy it. Quietly he said, "Though I have never met him, I have heard tale of Thranduil's ways. Those have always been ill-told rumors."

The elf shook his head but then grimly smiled. "Sometimes there is truth in rumor."

But Gimli would not be deterred from lightening the pain of those revelations. "Nay, it cannot be. Not wholly. I know my own people, and… Do not repeat this in any other company, for I will deny having said it, but the stories my people tell -- of Bilbo and the Battle of the Five Armies -- well... er, I believe ... I believe Thranduil's motives and actions were ... just. And before that -- though it troubles me to admit it -- his reasons for imprisoning my father and kin when they trespassed ... were sound."

Legolas laughed loudly then, and though it lightened his heart to hear the musical sound, Gimli scowled. Admitting his people's failure was not an easy thing. "You are a funny creature, Gimli," Legolas said. "There was a time when you would have taken my head for the crimes of my king."

Gimli made an odd sound as he coughed and cleared his throat at the same time. "That was… ere I knew much of elves. I… have a new perspective now, and I harbor no more anger for those actions. And I will confess this now, for it is a truth: the dwarf tales and what claims were made of your father have never truly been real. I would profess for you now that the words of my people have been exaggerated for the betterment of _their part_ in the tale. Over time I believe they have even come to think the stories real. But, Legolas, please do not tell me you receive them as truths also!"

It was a huge admission, and Legolas appeared ready to acknowledge that. His blue eyes sparkled, but there was pain behind his gaze. Though nodding his head in thanks, the elf countered. "My grudge against Thranduil goes back much further than that of your kin, Gimli. But I thank you for the kindness you show me. It is true what you say about the king's motives being just. But you should know I do not partake in rumors. Among my people few have ever claimed him a miscreant. Fewer still even think him a poor king. No, Thranduil is well-loved among Mirkwood's denizens, even if I share none of those same affections. Sadly, I know the real truth, or at least the truth I have lived. For the most part I have kept it to myself, until now."

"Why do you not speak of your doubts about the king to your people?"

"I do not see a reason that I should. He has not purposely tried to hurt his people and I am not out to impeach his reputation. I have served him humbly, and I will do so again if he does not release me from my bond. Nay, truly what I say is that I cannot be _son_ to him. He has been no father to me and I question whatever it is that guides his decisions."

"You did well to represent him though when you came to Rivendell to speak before Lord Elrond and the rest of the Council," Gimli tossed out.

Legolas laughed loudly then and Gimli wondered at the mad sound of it. It was clear the elf was under the strain of his emotions, "I was even less than the humble servant or the loyal citizen that day. I came at no bidding of Thranduil."

"But you said you are a subject of the king."

"I am also an elf whose desires are for the greater good of my people. I follow his rules, but my station, at times makes me privy to what others are not allowed. In this I act as a son disagreeing with the assessment of his father. Fortune allowed that I learned what I did. I was in the northern part of Mirkwood realm when the attack and escape of Gollum occurred. I was one of the elves who searched for those missing. I shudder at my people's fate, and I could not help being angered that my father allowed that creature to go free!"

"I do not think he let Gollum loose himself," the dwarf defended.

Legolas' brows knitted as if recalling past anger. "Nay, but it was his lax discipline that allowed the elves on duty to let him slip a message and plot a means of escape! That I do put to blame!"

"Surely you do not dispute the kind hearts of the elves involved?" Gimli asked.

Legolas dropped his head before softly speaking, "It was Mithrandir who put the task to Thranduil to guard the prisoner Gollum, but it was with reluctance that the king accepted. He was not pleased to be given the job of minding such a wretched creature, but once taken, it was not his to show slack in his duty. I will tell the truth here, my dwarf friend. Deep down, Thranduil was more displeased at doing something at the bidding of Lord Elrond than taking the task of watching a prisoner. Albeit, the request came through Mithrandir but he knew the order was truly Elrond's. And that was more dishonorable to him than taking a disreputable job. He did this task, Gimli, but he assigned guards to the job that had not the best reputations of duty."

"He could not have known they would fail," Gimli protested.

"Known it? I believe he had hoped it. Despite the rumors any dwarves might tell, Thranduil is not a fool. He knows and expects quality. Had he truly wanted 'Elrond's prisoner' kept safe -- for that is how he put the creature Gollum in terms -- he would have assigned stricter measures."

"Do you not think he was just a poor tactician? Perhaps he did not realize?"

"I am certain he would not have wanted those elves to die. But beyond that, I think all was his intent. I have seen how his mind works when he sets about a task. He can be brilliant. He does not settle for less than greatest efforts. He pursues quality."

"And you are saying in this instance he did not. But it worked out to the best in the end, did it not," Gimli offered in weak consolation.

"Not for those elves. But even so, none knew what would come at the time. And further, none would have even known of Gollum's escape had I not reported it," Legolas replied.

"No news would have come?"

"It was his order that nothing be said. And I mutinied in that respect. I left for Rivendell of my own accord. My father was not made aware of my actions."

"There were other elves with you when you came to Rivendell though," Gimli countered. "If Thranduil knew not your attendance, how did you procure an escort? It all seemed appropriate by my judgment."

"Small details, Gimli. Despite my estrangement from the royal house, I fulfilled my duty to his court and I am not impoverished of rank. There are guards at my command. I took them with me for protection. One elf alone is not safe in the passes where orcs might lie in wait."

"Still, I did not detect your appearance at the council to be out of place," the dwarf commented.

"You obviously did not know Thranduil's reputation then. I had not anticipated speaking before a council, only to Lord Elrond. Even still, learning as you have, does it not seem strange to you that King Thranduil would send the crown prince on such a lowly errand as to deliver the message of a prisoner escape? After all, I came to tell of his _failure_." Legolas inferred.

"It seems odd to me that Thranduil would admit to failure in any way, let alone to wonder at why he might send his son to do it," the dwarf supplied suddenly realizing the elf was right.

To that, Legolas smiled broadly. "Exactly! Thus did I come. My father had no intentions of passing word that the guard erred in their duties. Especially to Lord Elrond. Thranduil and I argued the points, but he would not see my way. Gollum escaped, but none might have ever known it had I not crossed my king and taken matters into my own."

"Are you saying that you came to Imladris without Thranduil's permission?"

"I am."

"He did not know you were there?"

It seemed Legolas refrained from lacing his answer with too much sarcasm but Gimli felt it was there in any case, "I believe that he learned of it when Lord Elrond sent a message in return informing the king that I would be participating as a part of the Fellowship."

"Oh, Aule!" Gimli laughed darkly. "A black day I imagine that to be in the forest realm!"

And Legolas chuckled too, "I was certain I could hear his bellow from the other side of the mountain."

"But did he not realize your absence before then?"

"I was not living in the palace at the time, Gimli. I would not know."

"Would he not have sent for you at some point though? Estranged or not, unless he proclaims a new heir, you are the crown prince."

Legolas' laughter faltered. "'Tis an empty title, but that is not the query. If he would have missed me, I cannot say, for I was not there. Likely not. We did not speak often, and when we argued, a long time could pass before either of us found peace enough to breach our silence."

"But he is your father!"

"Not for many a long year has he been that, Gimli. I told you. I gave up my vow to him by disallowing him the title of father to me."

"What then is his grudge against Lord Elrond?"

"The same grudge I would guess him to have against Galadriel and Celeborn, though the lord of the Golden Wood is of his own blood. I cannot say with any certainty why he holds feeling against them, for I never found his reasoning sound. He has always just held a distrust for them, or so I perceive."

"Like the history between the elves and dwarves."

"At least there was cause for _that_ prejudice. What he bears against the elves in the other realms does not have a historical basis."

"Perhaps it is the darkness that causes this," Gimli offered.

"I suppose it is possible that he is affected by the leeching darkness that falls on Mirkwood," Legolas agreed though he tilted his head to one side.

"Plus he drinks."

"Do you mean wine, Gimli?" the elf asked, confused by the comment. "All elves drink wine. Thranduil is no different," though in saying this Gimli felt Legolas was holding some thought back.

"That does not mean he cannot suffer from dependence," Gimli argued.

"I know of what you speak, but that is a mortal affliction. No elf suffers such illness as dependence on wine or drug or other substance. Our healers would tell you that the Firstborn heal too fast to get locked into compulsive need."

Gimli sighed. "Then let us call it Dol Guldur's influence that moves him."

The elf nodded bearing a knowing expression. "Yes, I think that sound."

"But why are _you_ not affected by the close proximity of the Necromancer?"

"Thranduil would tell you that I am. Personally I do not see it, but if I am then perhaps Thranduil is too without his realizing it."

"Do you not think that is forgiveable?" Gimli asked. He had not meant to play the part of defender to the Mirkwood king, but here he was doing just that.

Legolas hung his head as if in shame but said nothing in answer. Gimli watched the elf carefully, his eyes closely watching the body language being spoken. Legolas' left hand twitched as the fingers there unconsciously played at the elf's leg and he thought he saw a tremor shake his friend's shoulders.

The elf was sliding away. Soon he would fall into his sea-longing and Gimli did not want that. "You joined the warriors' services shortly after your mother's death, did you not?" the dwarf prompted.

"Yes. It was my salvation, the thing that kept me from complete heartbreak and fading. I was only a few months from my majority when she passed, and I joined the military the moment I was able."

"The dark effect on Thranduil was not so dark then that he tried to stop you," the dwarf pointed out.

Legolas smiled sadly. "He tried but I was determined. I was of age. He could not overrule me. Yet he fought me every chance that he could. Thus my reasons for staying away as often as _I could_."

Gimli frowned, not pleased to ask but feeling, for the sake of friendship, that he must. "And between the time of her death and the time that you learned of Gollum you were with your father how often?"

Legolas sighed, his brow creased and Gimli noticed that the elf almost winced, as if he were in pain. "I know what you get at, dwarf. It is true; I have spent little time with him over the centuries. Perhaps my actions have been hasty. I have shown little propensity to forgive him, but it is not entirely as you might think. What he did… I can give you no more examples today that would make you see it clearly. I will only say that he committed these crimes again and again in my life. He did not learn from his failures. He did not change enough for me to trust again his actions."

It was Gimli's turn to frown though he tried to speak as gently as he could. "And _you_ jump to conclusions. I am not faulting your judgment or your actions. In fact I agree with you; Thranduil is errant. What I wonder is why you do not give him the chance to redeem himself. It seems to me that you have a pattern yourself, and that is to flee him whenever he displeases you."

Abruptly the elf answered, disbelief marking his expression, "I do not flee!"

"What word might you use then?" the dwarf replied without apology.

"You do not understand!" Legolas answered. His voice quaked in rage but Gimli did not back away from the show of emotion. It was time they confronted this.

"I understand that each time you and your father disagree you run away."

"I am no coward!" Legolas raged.

"Did I say that you were? On the battlefield you are not," the dwarf agreed, "definitely. But within the confines of intimacies I might have question."

"That is untrue."

"Then why hide your past from me?"

"It is not an easy thing to discuss, Gimli!"

"Apparently so."

"You do not understand! I am sorry I even spoke of it to you!" Legolas lashed out.

"Thus completing the cycle of fleeing from what is difficult," the dwarf retorted. He regretted having to say such words, but if he was to help the elf, he felt they had to be said.

It was taking all he had within to keep Legolas from walking away. It was not his habit to flee what was bothersome. Gimli apparently did not understand the whole of the picture. Yet Legolas knew what it would cost him to explain. Some things did need to remain in the past.

The scar on his thigh tingled as if fingers ran across it. He shuddered at the suddenness of the phantom touch. He brushed the thought away just as he might push a molester aside. "You do not understand! You do not understand!" he shouted at the dwarf.

"Legolas--" Gimli said, touching the elf upon the shoulder, but Legolas flinched at the contact.

"No!"

The memories were thick. A laugh softly rang in his ears and whispered words echoed in his mind.

"_Dare I go on? He looks to be asleep."_

"_Nay, do not stop. Go on, go on. There is pleasure here. Can you not see the evidence?"_

And then more laughter. They were mocking him, finding humor in his helplessness. And then his body stirred. He could not stop the actions taken!

"No," he cried as Gimli took a step forward.

Fingers touched him. Feathery light they stroked his flesh.

He batted them away though he knew they were not there.

Memories. They were too close. He never should have started this. He never should have recalled his horrible history.

"Legolas, let me help you," the dwarf was saying as if he understood the elf was troubled, but all Legolas saw was the flashback memory of that inviolate breach of trust. What his father did…

"Do not touch me!" Legolas cried as he pushed Gimli away.

And then he was gone, running, trying to escape.

He went into the woods; so natural was that decision. Only a few hours before the idea of crossing the border of this grim place had made him ill, so dark had it appeared. Now it was his flight from repressed memories.

And he had been doing so well, pushing it aside, finding forgiveness. If only Thranduil had not gifted the lands to the Galadhrim all of this might have remained buried!

The voices followed him, their whispers and laughter mimicked by the crisp sound of twigs crunching beneath his feet and the brush of dried shrubbery catching on his clothes. Still they pursued.

In the distance he could hear Gimli calling his name and Arod neighing out a startled cry, but he could not answer. He could not go back until he had mastered this wicked assault upon his recollection. He stopped, not certain where he was and truly not caring. He turned around in a circle searching for a means to end what was playing in his ears. The cries, the moans, the laughter -- they were there all around him.

He realized then that he was panting. Not all of it was necessarily caused by his flight. "No," he moaned, hoping somehow if he spoke to the memory it might end.

Hands were touching him. Touching him! He could not make them stop.

He spun around, screaming to the treetops, hoping that this horror might end if he shouted out his intention.

"Help me! Please, please, help me! I need to learn why Thranduil did this! What part did he play in this doom?"

The hands were still there. He needed to make it end!

"Please, I am frightened. Tell me what I fear is not true!"

He sobbed, his despair unable to give him escape. How to make it end?

Hands were grabbing him. Grabbing him! Touching!

And then he was held. Something had him!

"No!" he cried, pushing them away.

But this was real! No memory was this! Something truly held him!

He was blind to what it was! Twisting, he tried to see. The grip held him tighter. He was being crushed!

"You came! You came!" a voice boomed and he was being spun about. "You came."

And then Legolas saw it was Mithtaur who held him.

"You came," the grey Ent said as he turned Legolas around to face him. "Faeldaer had said that you would and you have. I am gladdenedgladdenedgladdened that you have too for I have need of your help."

**TBC**


	18. Meeting Mithaur

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Seventeen: Meeting Mithtaur_

The dwarf did not follow, at least not at first. Disgruntled and admittedly angered by the elf's sudden mood, he decided not to pursue Legolas on his flight into the woods. Had it been day he might have done differently, but in the impenetrable density of the moon-shrouded night he chose to let his friend go. He justified this by deciding they both could use some distance.

However, as the hours passed, his mixed feelings melted into concern. He usually did not fret for Legolas; the elf was ancient by dwarven standards and could fend for himself in nearly any circumstance. Yet Gimli also had to admit he had never seen Legolas so distressed, and he began to doubt that the elf could act with any semblance of rational thought given the emotional state he had been in when he departed. Ultimately the only thing that kept Gimli from setting off in search of his friend was his internally voiced assurance that the forest would look after Legolas.

That did not allow him to sleep though. He kept a wary eye out for his friend throughout the night. It was unnecessary really; Arod, without being assigned the task, played a very good guardsman. Gimli had seen it many times already on this journey and had grown convinced the horse was part elf for his keen senses. The stallion, though resting, had his ears cocked and twitching and Gimli knew he was alert to even the most remote of changes. Still Gimli knew sleep would not take him until he was assured Legolas' safe return. His concern did not rest and his agitation remained piqued. He would suffer for it the next day but it was not something he could purposely halt.

When the sky began to lighten and birds began their chattering alert to the new day he could stand it no more. He had hoped the horse would announce Legolas' return but it never came. So instead he gathered the elf's gear as well as his own, then turned to Arod. He was reluctant to speak to the beast for he truly did not believe the animal could understand him; someone had once told him the brain of a horse was the size of a walnut, and if so, how would it know anything beyond what came by way of nature.Yet Legolas attributed great intelligence to this animal, and so Gimli set his shoulders in place and marched to where the horse had nested itself, if only to appease any sense of rightness in his choice to leave.

Of course, the wariness was not one-sided. On any normal occasion it was nearly impossible for Gimli to even approach Arod if the elf was absent. If Gimli took a step in the animal's direction, the beast would drive away in a spirited canter. It was obvious the horse wanted nothing to do with him, and for his part Gimli could honestly say the feelings were mutual.

However, he also gave the animal credit for _some _intelligence. Not only did Arod seem to play a part as a watcher, he also appeared to understand everything Legolas said to him. Of course, that was not completely possible, for even Gimli did not understand everything Legolas said to him. He attributed it more to elven magic than anything else.

Then again, he doubted Legolas and the horse had such deep conversations as those they had had the night before.

The apprehension caused by that memory built an ache in his chest. He wished the elf would simply come back. Such a bother would not be necessary. Yet if not, he wished he had a better way to safeguard his location than what he now planned.

The animal angled himself up, quickly coming to a stand as Gimli neared. As always, Arod looked at him from the corner of his eye, ears cocked as if to measure him, and Gimli prepared for the inevitable dodge. Only it didn't come. Arod stood his ground, warily watching the dwarf as if he knew there was something important in what Gimli was about to say.

"You sense it, do you?" Gimli asked, surprised both that he was speaking and that it seemed right to be doing so. "Very well then," he said, watching the horse's ears pivot around, listening both for him and any sounds that might come out of the woods. "We have two choices. Either you go in there after him, or I do."

The horse gazed at him from the side of his head. The dwarf found it rather disconcerting that the animal never looked at him directly face to face, but he had been told -- by Legolas no less -- that horses had trouble seeing straight on, so he supposed this was the way Arod could measure him. Still, it would have shown more trust and reassurance to him if the animal would just come to look at him directly. The horse's stance just proved that their trust for one another, even after all they had been through, had never transformed to something of faith.

And then the horse looked over his shoulder at the woods then back at the dwarf, and Gimli could have sworn the animal was telling him to go on and find his friend.

He spoke again, surprising himself and -- he could see by the twitching ears -- Arod in doing so. "I agree. I will go look for him. You should stay here. One of us needs to be here should he return on his own, and if I do not return with him, he should be able to follow my tracks readily enough, even if the ground is hard. I will not travel lightly through these woods," he said more to himself than the horse. He rather dreaded the idea of entering the dim forest.

Arod bowed his head as if agreeing though Gimli could not really be sure. It might have been that the animal was simply attempting to nibble a patch of clover near his feet.

Uncertain if they had truly communicated, he wondered if he should say more. He considered patting the animal's shoulder as he so often saw Legolas do, but then negated the thought. He didn't feel comfortable displaying affection to the horse. "I know not how long I will be gone. It may be a few days. If the elf returns, tell him I expect him to seek me out. Even knowing all I do, I would not go into this forest were it of my own choosing."

Arod looked up at him again, and then dropped his head for more grazing.

Accepting that as agreement, the dwarf turned aside and threw the packs over his shoulder and marched on to the woods.

----------

The grey death of the forest was apparent even in the yawning pitch of dawn. Light was not shared in the depths of the forest and Gimli had to rely upon his ability to see in dark places so that he might navigate his way through. Surprisingly, the thick crisscross of branches canopied the sky, even over the river path that he followed. With all the dead or seemingly dead trees, one would think the roof of branches would have collapsed and a barren field of trunks would have been all that remained. Not so. Sickly ivy and poisonous oaks wound their way into the branches, and the sky remained dark because of them.

"Dead trees." Gimli muttered but then rethought that notion_. Some dead, some not._ Snatches of living wood could be seen among all the rickety limbs and even then Gimli could sense a living presence in the wood. Stifling and unyielding, he could still feel the forest breathe. It was an uncomfortable sensation. Nothing was friendly about the place. It was hurting and angry. Putrid air hung there and gnarly wood created faces in the trees that he could neither confirm nor deny were real. Decrepit and rotting from the core outward, he had the sense that they were watching him, even if he could not see eyes actually doing so.

And too, there was death. There was too much silence here not to notice the presence of that as well.

His foot splashed in the water at the edge of the river and he jumped in surprise at the loudness of it. The noise reverberated through the trees, hollow and empty. In the dark he had not noticed how close he had strayed to the water's edge. It was barely to be seen for the water moved at a lazy pace, as if it too were ill with the heaviness of the wood. From time to time a fallen tree or a rock broke the surface of the water and noise emanated from that place in the deep pool. But otherwise he might not have noticed the river was there at all.

Gimli pushed on. Even in the morning's night dimness, the air was thick. But that was the least of the things he noticed. The combination of stagnant stillness and piteous life felt much like fingers caressing raw chords of fear. The sensations made him shudder and were it not for the elf he might have turned on his heel and parted. Quickly.

Yet he set about his course, struggling to shed his dread. He told himself that he had been through worse and so set his mind to task. He was to find Legolas.

Tracking, however, was an impossibility in this game. Were it a Man or another Dwarf he sought, it might have been different. Finding a wood elf in the _woods _was a fruitless pursuit. Fortunately, he knew Legolas sought out Mírnen and, having placed its location on the slopeside the day before, that was the path Gimli took too. He also knew from the tale Legolas had told that the fabled lake met a stream that coursed down the pass. He followed this river in hopes that it might lead him that way. There were many rivers that flowed into the Entwash, but Legolas had felt certain when they made camp that this was the place to be. So he trusted his friend, or at least the one he knew from saner times.

His thoughts turned to the state of Legolas' mind and guilt again plagued him. He wished he had not pressed so hard. With the combination of sea-longing and personal disappointments, Legolas had enough mental difficulties to endure without the dwarf making it worse. Still, he cursed Thranduil before he put blame to himself. Had the Mirkwood king not given his lands away to the Galadhrim the reminders of Legolas' old pains might not have come to the front, at least not at this time. He knew Legolas had wanted those southern Mirkwood lands to rebuild. It had been his hope to clean them up, even before the Quest. What was more, Thranduil knew this. It must have hurt Legolas greatly to have it given it to someone else, for whatever cause. Thus Gimli knew of the starting place for Legolas' hurt though it certainly was not where the agonies ended. Even if it had not been delved into now, Gimli felt certain the ache would have had to have been addressed sometime.

Still, all Gimli had wanted was to help, and though criticism is oft not taken well, at times obvious critique is best placed. He could not have known his friend's reaction would be so extreme and thus tried not to feel at complete blame.

A sound touched his ears then, and he paused, turning about to seek it. Was it upstream? It was soft and misplaced in the dreary woods.

_Legolas?_

His footsteps quickened and his body was propelled forward by the possibility. Having traveled less than a mile, the reunion would be quick if so. But there was fear in his thoughts. In what state might he find the elf, if indeed it was his friend he heard? He stopped, listened again. Was it Legolas?

And then he halted no more. Placing the sound he ran forward along the river edge one foot before the other, not caring what sound he made. It was a short jog, a distance he could cover quickly. And in a moment he was there.

On the edge of a rocky hummock he found his friend. Cross-legged, Legolas was perched, perfectly still but for the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were closed but Gimli knew him to be awake. He had seen Legolas like this many times before; Gimli knew the pose the elf took when he was singing.

Serenely, softly, melodically, gently, the tenor notes rose into the trees, smoothly drifting in the air and finding quiet release to the sky beyond the dark ceiling. Calm and clear, the sound seemed not to linger.

"I had thought you might have been lost," Gimli said when the song came to its end a minute later.

The elf gazed at him a moment and Gimli tried to discern what he could in that gaze. "To be lost one must be unaware of where they are," Legolas softly replied with a tilt of his head.

"Yet you did not return," Gimli pointed out, speaking softly as well so as not to appear too stern. He thought it possible the elf might be feeling a little damaged and that concern was confirmed in the slight furrow in the elf's brow that denoted pain. At the same time he tried not to feel hurt for his own part; it seemed his friend had been avoiding him.

"I was somewhat occupied," the elf said, still quietly, looking away, but the dwarf did not follow his eyes.

This reply angered Gimli. He was disappointed that Legolas would treat his concern so blithely. "I suppose your legs just got away from you then?" he said, his voice growing louder as sarcasm got the better of his words. "Yes, I imagine it must be hard to control something so unwieldy."

The elf's eyes brightened and the soft edge of his voice came a little harder. "And yet I see your patience still matches your stature despite the benefits such a stretch gave us," Legolas answered twisting his words into a reply that was in itself clever.

Gimli quickly spoke, the anger now recognizable in his voice, "Did you think it would? You cost me a good night's rest, Elf!"

"You are not alone," Legolas replied nodding toward the hillock.

It was then that Gimli's eyes saw the swaying shape that stood on the rise before his friend. With a start he came to realize what he saw was a living, breathing creature.

Legolas glanced back at the dwarf. "You woke him, Gimli."

"I woke him?"

"I had finally managed to get him to sleep," Legolas said, scolding him. The Ent blinked at the two of them but said nothing as Legolas explained. "I had thought some rest might help but he seems resistant to sleep."

Turning around to squarely face the Ent, Gimli knew his mouth gaped. Yet he could not help but feel astounded. Little had he expected to have the tree lord just plunk himself before him in such an easy way. Then again, had that not been how the Ent had approached them twice already? More as an aside than as a direct question he said, "When am I going to cease being surprised by the sudden appearance of these creatures?"

"When you learn that they do not just appear and that it is you who suddenly stands before _them_," Legolas said as he rose on his long legs. "Let us get on with this as I think it is time you were properly introduced to one we have sought. Though you have met before, this will be the first fomally done. Gimli, this is Lord Mithtaur -- or Greywood as he is called in the common tongue -- regent of the northeastern forest."

Blinking again, the Ent gazed at Gimli and slowly said, "You are a dwarf." It was not the first time Mithtaur had said this to him.

"So I have been told," Gimli retorted without further comment.

"Mithtaur, this is Gimli, son of Gloin," Legolas offered the tree creature.

"I thirst," the old Ent abruptly said. Gimli had the distinct impression that, beyond the initial comment, the Ent really did not notice him.

With a sigh, Legolas pointed Mithtaur to the river from which Gimli had come. "There," he said.

"I wantwantwant to drink from my own font," the Ent said like a petulant child.

"It is not to be helped," Legolas answered. "This is all I have to offer."

The Ent sighed and then nodded. Gimli watched as he trundled off to his destination, his figure rocking as he marched down the riverbank.

Gimli spoke before Legolas could. "How? Where?"

The elf held up his hand indicating they should keep their voices low. "He came upon me last night. He appears to be lost," the elf answered in a whisper.

"Surely you jest," the dwarf mocked.

Legolas then raised his brow as if he knew Gimli's next question. In the grey light Gimli felt his friend looked very pale though he did not question it. He feared he already knew the cause. "Yes, I know, I would not have come upon him at all had I not parted as I did. It was... not a good moment for me... then... last night. I apologize for my poor behavior."

There. It had been said, and it had come easier than Gimli had expected. The dwarf felt both relief for the gesture, and remorse. Clearing his throat, he said, "Nay, it is I who apologizes. I should not have pried into something that obviously made you uncomfortable."

Legolas wrapped a hand around the dwarf's forearm in what Gimli had come to learn was the equivalent, in elven custom, of an embrace. "You were right to have done so. I have had little opportunity to vent my fury and hurt in the past, and I fear I have kept too much within. You shall know the full story, Gimli, in due time. For now we have a bewildered Ent to deal with."

Gimli noted the calm that marked the elf's demeanor, despite the wan countenance, and his brow furrowed. "You seem to be rather satisfied with the distraction."

Legolas' glance moved to the earth and Gimli could see the dark circles that ringed his friend's eyes. But then the elf's eyes smiled, and his marred expression brightened. "Do not think me unmoved. My mind still lingers on what was said last night, and I will do as I promise and tell you all. But I was also as surprised as you to meet up with the Greywood. He caught me very much off my guard. I will confess too that after my initial shock, I was delighted to fknow I had found him. He has become a part of my quest."

"Only after he made mention of your father in that dream. I wish now you had never had it. In case you have not noticed, your goals have shifted greatly since that time," the dwarf muttered, not sure if this new Ent encounter was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I know. Again I apologize for making this difficult for you. You need not follow me if you wish to return home," Legolas offered with a sad smile.

Gimli balked. "Leave you? Now? When the meat of this nut is about to be shelled? You owe me a tale, Elf."

"Ah! And you see," the elf said with spirited delight that was typical of the swift shift in moods he was capable, "it is this advice of yours, to delve into my worries that had made me all the more eager to meet up with Mithtaur. I had thought he might help me sort out my troubles," Legolas replied.

"I think more than Ent talk is needed to resolve what ails you. You should confront your father, I think, not search for hidden secrets. Why search for hearsay, Legolas?"

The elf's smile disappeared. "I seek the truth; that is not something my father oft gives," he said.

Gimli waved his hands in the air as if to erase his words. "Just tell me if you learned what you had hoped to learn?"

Legolas sighed, "I have not. Mithtaur has told me nothing. I am afraid what was said is true. He is without his wits." Gimli blinked but tried not to show surprise in finding the elf had come to this conclusion. He had thought this from the very start but Legolas had been Greywood's seeming defender. The elf appeared chagrined to be making this admission. "He knows not what he says, or if he does his replies are a jumbled collection that make no sense to any but him."

The dwarf twisted around then to gaze back to where the Ent had gone. Concern suddenly made him wary. "Is it safe to be around him then?"

Legolas laughed. "Aye, that I will grant you. And yet what he says is terribly suspect. In the course of the night I have asked him many questions, oft repeating the same. Each time his answers are different, even to the simplest of these. Strangely though, his answers become more consistent as the hours go on."

"I would expect that so," Gimli commented. "He becomes practiced in his replies."

"Were his answers clear you might say that, but his consistency is apparent in his inconsistency," the elf said.

"You speak circles," Gimli stated as he glanced again for the Ent. He could see the top withered branches of the creature's head on the other side of the hill's crest, but the tree lord had not moved and so he guessed the Ent to still be drinking.

"Perhaps you can question him yourself so you might see what I mean. Nothing he has said to me gives me clear answers and I must remain true to our earlier speculation that there are no elves in these woods," Legolas said, his expression chagrined.

"He has told you this?"

"Yes, and no. His answers make no sense. In fact, at times he mistakes me for Celebrimbor."

"I suppose that makes me Narvi," Gimli smirked.

"It is not amusing, Gimli. He is confused about what is real and what is not."

"Given the dream he told you and everything that happened there, that is not a surprising statement to me," the dwarf shrugged.

"Except that some of what he says is as if it were the present and some is as if it were the past. At times he speaks as if Faeldaer, Celebrimbor and all of Mírnen were with us now," Legolas said, concern darkening his eyes.

"Perhaps they are alive then?" Gimli offered though he really did not think it.

"Nay," Legolas said, shaking his head. "All evidence proves Sauron's attack was successful and this realm was destroyed. Galadriel came into possession of Nenya --"

"We have yet to learn how that came to be. But I am willing to believe she would tell of it when next we meet," the dwarf interrupted, excited to have a reason to speak to the Lady again.

"--but we will never know how the final ends of the battle came _here_," Legolas said undeterred by Gimli's interruption. "That saddens me most. I should have liked to know the elves here had somehow escaped."

"And gone on to the Undying Lands?" Gimli asked but then immediately regretted it. Legolas closed his eyes, casting his head down, and the dwarf thought he saw him sway. _There it is, the sea-longing again,_ Gimli thought, confirming the reason for the elf's ill appearance_. Gods! Is it not enough you already inflict upon him?_

The dwarf cleared his throat. "They carried the crime of Celebrimbor in wanting too much," he suggested in the attempt to draw the elf back.

"They wanted only what I want, to restore the world to its former beauty. They had advantage of gift to make it so. They did not know it was wrong." Legolas said, opening his eyes and gazing down on his friend.

Gimli wanted to change the subject for he did not know what else to say about the matter of Ents or these lands. "I suppose we are done in these woods then."

"You wish to leave?" Legolas answered the question with a question.

"That is not what I said. But I have to admit your horse would be pleased to see you again so soon," the dwarf said, lost for any words of comfort he might offer.

"Does he expect me otherwise?" Legolas asked, a curious smile curling up his lips.

"Actually I think he expects you may be gone a few days. He guards our camp should you return without me," Gimli said. He could feel his face redden as the elf's smile grew larger.

"And how would he know to stay put?" Legolas coyly asked.

"...because I...er...told him to..." the dwarf murmured.

"What is that you say? I did not hear you, Gimli," Legolas teased.

"Your hearing is fine and you know what I said," the dwarf snarled. "Arod has been told I would return with you in a few days."

He knew he was about to get an earful from the elf, but the humorous chiding was put aside when he saw Legolas' eyes shift to something behind him. The dwarf turned to find Mithtaur lumbering up to them. He had not heard the Ent approaching and he was glad Legolas had visually cued him. He would have been surprised otherwise and he was tired of being surprised by Ents.

"The water is not so goodgoodgood here. It has an odd -- hmmmm -- taste," Mithtaur's low voice boomed. "It should be sweet and clear and felt to the roots."

"I have no complaints about it," Gimli countered more to see what the Ent might say than to create an argument.

"How I long for the waters of my own-own-own spring," the Ent said. "Oh, but this is why I do not choose to travel. These drinks I take elsewhere sicken me. I can feel their effect on me and I do not likelikelike how they alter my mind."

"And yet you have found yourself home regardless," Legolas said in assurance.

"Nay! This is not my homehomehome!" Mithtaur countered angrily. "Mine is a verdant wood with the subtle scent of pine and spice and earthy loam!"

"But was that not Mírnen that I saw upon the rise before? If this is not your wood, where might it be?" the elf asked.

The Ent looked about as if he might see it if he only dared try. His voice wailed a plaintive cry, "Dark is this dream! Darkdarkdark! My forest is not so bleak as this. How this dream strikes my heart! Truly I should call it a nightmare. How I long just to wake and be done with the misery put to me here. Faeldaer, wake me!"

"Er...do you call for an elf who has parted?" Gimli asked realizing this was the kind of confusion Legolas had been referring to. He watched Greywood carefully to see how he might respond.

"He was with me when last I saw with _real _eyes!" the Ent defended, seeming to finally notice Gimli's presence.

"Then are you saying that Faeldaer lives?" the dwarf asked.

"In this dream he does not. He is parted and lost to me now and I fear he will be forevermore. What purpose have I now? What will I do without those that I keep? I wish to be in my home..." the tree creature sighed.

"Then you are saying this is not your home," Gimli stated in the attempt to make the Ent's comment clear.

"But it is-is-is!" the Ent rebutted.

"You just said--" Gimli started.

Legolas interrupted nodding to the dwarf as if confirming the oddity of these statements, "Mithtaur, have you been home to Mírnen since leaving the Gathering?"

"Mírnen is lost to me! I should not have parted it. Lost-lost-lost am I! Cruel dream! Celebrimbor, help me wake," the Ent cried, pulling at his limbs. His frustration was clearly visible.

Gimli felt his brows furrow in confusion. He could not pretend to understand what was going on with this strange creature.

But Legolas seemed to know. "We will lead you back," he offered.

"We will?" Gimli wondered aloud.

"Unless you truly wish to leave, we still have Narvi's gravesite to visit. We could share our companionship as we lead Mithtaur home. As you said, Arod does not expect us yet for a few days." And although Gimli was not comfortable in these woods, he did still wish to pay his respects to Lord Narvi and Arod would be content to wait.

But Mithtaur's brows shot up. "You? But you are specters. You are not real. How can you return me home when you are but remnants of my reverie?"

"Have you a route you might otherwise try?" the elf countered, shrugging in reply. "We will escort you there," he pointed again up the forest hill, "and if we do not find Mírnen then you will be no worse off than you are now."

The Ent stood still for a long moment as if pondering this. Then he said, "I suppose you are right, little elf. Faeldaer had said as much might come to pass when I parted. Still I wish I had taken better notice of my road. But tell me, by what name may I introduce you when we meet with him?"

"As I have told you, I am Legolas," the elf said cocking his head to the tree lord's query and Gimli thought it strange he now spoke of Faeldaer as being alive.

"A Greenleaf. Ah yes now, I recall though it matters little since you do not exist," the Ent said somewhat dismissively. "And you are... Gimli, yes? See! Confused though I may be, Elf Legolas, I do have recollection. I have always favored dwarves." Gimli smirked at the elf, but he blanched in the next breath. "Your name's meaning though, Master Gimli, in Kazam means--"

Gimli stopped Greywood before he could utter anything dwarvish. Ents were known to be masters of language, and though this Ent was strange, Gimli wouldn't put it past him to know the dwarf's secret tongue. Keeping one's sacred name silent to outside ears was a dwarf's greatest duty. In fact all words of his language were to be kept hidden, but those were the ones most secret. They were to be spoken only on occasion of birth, death or marriage. Even with Legolas he would not share this knowledge. "Gimli will suffice for name," he quickly stated.

"Ahhhhh! I see, yes, I see," the Ent said and he smiled and winked at the dwarf as if he did understand this little secret.

"So you mention introducing us to Faeldaer. Might we expect to meet him?" Gimli asked, feeling emboldened by this show of friendship. But more, he wanted confirmation of what to expect. He was no longer sure what to believe of the Ent and his thoughts about Greywood were being confirmed. The Ent was indeed a strange one.

"FaeldaerFaeldaerFaeldaer is dead, Master Gimli, just as is Lord Narvi," the Greywood replied and his eyes dimmed as if horribly saddened to say this. "You would not expect they would still be alive after all these years, would you?"

That was proof enough for Gimli. Legolas had been right. This Ent was truly without wits. And yet, the dwarf also felt pity for the creature. He had balked before, but not at the idea of being the Ent's escort; more in wonder if it were truly necessary. Now he saw that it was. This creature might stumble about lost in the woods for an age if they did not help return him to his rightful home. Yes, they would see him to Mírnen.

**TBC**


	19. What Is Said in Rumors

Dark Forest_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Eighteen: What Is Said in Rumor_

For a time they traveled a path that paralleled the river, for Legolas recalled it being near Mírnen. But after a while they broke away from the water. The terrain went upward in swift progress, too much to easily tread, and it seemed that turning to a gentler path was their only recourse. Even then, finding footholds they could manage was not simple, especially given the size and girth of the Ent. He managed hills well enough, but climbing rock walls or stepping across ledges was not feasible for him. Thus their journey was made to circumnavigate the peak on which Mírnen was perched.

In their course they stopped frequently to let the Ent rest. Legolas worried for Mithtaur. He became exhausted easily. That struck the elf as odd. Legolas did not know much of the endurance of Ents, but he began to think this Ent not just mentally ill, but of poor health as well. Were it not for Gimli, he feared the journey might have gone poorly.

However, instead of being pitiful, the Ent persevered and Legolas was left to chuckle at the conversations of Mithtaur and Gimli. Endearment toward the Onodrim was not something one would have expected of a dwarf, but it was obvious Gimli had an affinity for Ents. Legolas had already seen that at the Gathering.

Perhaps, Legolas thought, it was their mutual talent for digging. Though Ents dug at the surface and dwarfs dug below, both races enjoyed the sensation of planting themselves into the ground. The conjecture was a stretch, Legolas knew, yet it came as a considerable surprise to find Gimli and Mithtaur getting along so well, especially given the threats the dwarf had made toward the Ent only days before.

But here, after several hours of walking into the highlands of the dismal forest, all seeming differences appeared gone. The dwarf was laughing at the tales the old gray Ent told, and Legolas felt almost as if he were forgotten between them. He did not mind.

"And what of Faeldaer?" Gimli asked. "Did Narvi show the same respects to that elf as he did to Celebrimbor?"

"Faeldaer? Oh no, Master Dwarf," Mithtaur chuckled. "With Faeldaer, Narvi was a completely differentdifferentdifferent dwarf. I think-- and do not tell Faeldaer I said it so-- that it was purposefully done. Hmmmm, reasoned, resolute and required. Hoomhoom, yes." The Ent chuckled here in his amusement. "Oh how Narvi worked to frustrate Faeldaer. He drove him to such distraction with his arguments and debate!"

"Ho!" Gimli laughed, "Then they verbally sparred!"

"Sparred? That is a modest word for what Master Narvi and Lord Faeldaer did. Master Narvi practically engaged Lord Faeldaer daily. Daily! Daily did he engage, bait, manipulate! Oh, how he plied. Yes, he was an expert at riling the elf master of Mírnen! But I will tell you a secret Sir Gimli -- that is, if you swear not to tell." Mithtaur said conspiratorially.

"Who would I tell?" Gimli scoffed and shrugged.

The Ent blinked and then nodded. "Yesyesyes, you are right, hooooom." Here he rumbled with the humor he no doubt felt. "I keep forgetting that you are but a dream and nothing is real between us. Yesyesyes. Then in that case you should know that Faeldaer, for all his frustration and anger at Lord Narvi, actually loved the dwarf."

"Loved?" Gimli asked, choking somewhat on the word. Legolas' attention grew piqued. He enjoyed moments when the dwarf seemed to squirm, and Legolas had oft noticed that talk of affection in any form did this to Gimli.

"Loved. Yes. Not that he would admit it. Nonono. But it was there, their affection. In fact, Narvi was loved by all the community."

"It is gratifying to know his remaining days were in the company of those who felt affection for him," Gimli said with sheepish embarrassment but then asked, as if attempting to change the subject, "How many were there living in Mírnen in those last days?"

"Oh, that is a number too large to name!" the gray Ent proclaimed.

"Truly you say? I had the impression it was just a few," Gimli replied.

"Among all living creatures? The number is great! Squirrels, chipmunks, badgers, raccoons, gnats, bats, birds, bees, worms, fish and frogs. I cannot name all who have resided in my woods," Mithtaur said.

"Er...I meant just the ones who walked on two legs and spoke in a language discernible to a dwarf," Gimli said, chuckling slightly.

"Oh, you could have just said that," Mithtaur corrected and Legolas laughed at the idea of an Ent wanting another to be succinct. "There are thirty-nine-nine-nine in Mírnen ... not including the dwarf."

It was obvious in his reply that Gimli had learned to ignore the shift between past and present tense when the Ent spoke. It was also clear he had learned to adapt to the indirect ways of conversation Mithtaur used when he spoke. "Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine. Well, thank you for that. But I think it is you who started the meandering in your talk though. Then again I am used to it. My friend, Legolas here, does it all the time."

Legolas smiled at that. What Gimli said was true, though in his case the meandering was purposeful. In Mithtaur's it was entirely within the nature of the Ent.

"Ah, and there again is a friendship that is deep in its affections," Mithtaur nodded. "It is good to see such love again in these woods."

"We are just friends, Greywood," Gimli corrected.

"You have love," the Ent replied and Legolas grinned broadly as he watched the dwarf's face flush once again.

Gimli caught his gaze and directed his response to the elf. "You explain it."

"What is there to explain, Elvellon? Do you not feel love in your affections for me?" the elf replied with a teasing grin.

"You goad me, elf, and I am quite aware that you do so. I do not care for such terms in expression of my feelings," Gimli responded. "And I am certain Narvi would have said the same no matter how much affection was shown him by those of the community. If he had to put up with such words I wonder that he stayed in the company of elves."

Legolas laughed. "If he objected as much as you do, Gimli, I am certain he would have found life difficult among the citizens of Mírnen. Why is it that you have trouble expressing love?"

"I have no difficulties. I think it is you elves who apply the word too easily to what might simply be friendship," the dwarf answered and Legolas felt his heart constrict though he could not name the reason why. He knew Gimli's feelings and he was not hurt by what the dwarf said.

"I think there are many ways the word can be applied," Legolas countered, then he turned back to Mithtaur. "Tell us of the friendship between Narvi and Faeldaer."

"It was a friendship based upon love. Indeed it was, though if you wish to call it friendship alone, Master Dwarf, let me say that it was friendship shown in a deep, abiding, kindness-invoking affection. Is that not love? I suppose it does not matter what word you use to describe it. In the end Faeldaer came to appreciate Narvi's part and how he helped in building the colony. For Faeldaer, I think Narvi's presence helped remind him of his purposepurpose."

"I would call that love," Legolas said with the goal of pushing the dwarf into argument.

"Pah! It is friendship!" Gimli sniped back, taking the bait.

Ignoring them both, the Ent went on, "And it aided him in holding to his love for Celebrimbor."

"Ah, Faeldaer and Celebrimbor. Now there was true love," Legolas went on, still egging the dwarf on.

"Er...I think now we speak of a _love_ I would rather not discuss." The dwarf's face reddened even more.

Mithtaur looked at Gimli and shrugged. "Why? Love is love," the Ent said.

The dwarf glanced sidelong at the Ent and then shook his head. Legolas knew what was coming for it was a contentious debate between them, though the elf felt he was swaying Gimli's opinion somewhat. Having Aragorn, who Gimli greatly admired, weigh in on Legolas' side of the argument helped quell the dwarf's fire. Somewhat. Fire still existed.

"I differ in that opinion," Gimli argued, frowning in the direction of Legolas as if he were the one who had made the comment. "There is, er, _love_ between men, if you want to call it that, but in my mind that affection should remain brotherly. It should not lead to courtship. In Legolas' dream, Faeldaer told of bonding to Celebrimbor. That is not the love one feels for a brother. I find it disturbing."

"Love is love," Mithtaur repeated. "There is nothing wrong with love so long as there is no harm done to others."

"Disturbing," Gimli muttered as if repeating the word made it such. "My people do not love male to male... like that," Gimli gruffly said.

"That you know of," Legolas said then ducked his head as he laughed. Gimli did not talk much of such pairings. It no doubt embarrassed him. But as a long observer of life and Arda's gifts, Legolas had yet to find a species that did not partake of some pairings that were between two of the same. Gimli might think it aberrant, but in a race that was predominantly male, Legolas could not help but believe some quietly kept relationships did form between dwarves, and the love expressed there was likely more than _brotherly_.

Mithtaur seemed not to notice Legolas' goading or Gimli's embarrassment. "I will not pretend I understand such affections, but I know Faeldaer claimed he was bonded to Celebrimbor in heart." The Ent shook his head.

"I still feel it is wrong," Gimli chimed in.

"Is it? Prior to our meeting, Master Dwarf, your knowledge of elves was extremely limited and biased," Legolas countered, irritation suddenly eating at him. The elf did not care for the dwarf's prejudice and he felt his resentment building within his chest. "What do you really know about elven unions?"

"There is much I have heard. I know not where to begin," Gimli sputtered.

"Pick a fact then and I will tell you if it is correct," Legolas offered.

"It seems none of my business really," the dwarf said, hedging.

"Well then, let us tackle the one about affections and creating bonds between sexes. You are male and I am male, Gimli. Would you not wish to know how our relationship is regarded in the eyes of an elf?" Legolas taunted.

"I do not know what you mean," the stout warrior grumbled with suspicion.

"Would you not wish to know if my affections for you were ...brotherly...or perhaps _more_?" Legolas hinted.

"They are not more!" Gimli roared, and it was suddenly clear he had never even considered anything beyond strict friendship between them. "I ... no, I -- you -- it is not -- we are just _friends_," the dwarf sputtered. "You do not feel otherwise! I know it!"

Legolas laughed and put a hand on the dwarf's shoulder as they walked. "You are correct, for if there was anything else you would indeed know it, Gimli. Two of any sex would not pair or truly bond unless it were _mutually_ felt. I cannot give myself over to you unless you give yourself entirely over to me. And no, I do not feel any desire to give myself over to you in _that way_. Worry not. A true bond is one in which both parties completely surrender themselves to the other willingly, lovingly."

"I knew that," Gimli stated quickly, blustering as if this indeed was a fact to him.

"You see, this was the problem with Faeldaer's bond with Celebrimbor. It was a false union,"

"False? False? Hooooooooom! How so?" Mithtaur asked.

"Annatar... Sauron had admitted that he had disguised himself in Celebrimbor's form in order to pair with Faeldaer. And Faeldaer had pledged himself to Celebrimbor in that moment. He did not realize that he had really bonded himself to Sauron... Annatar," Legolas explained.

"What does that mean? You have used that word, 'bonded,' several times now. Is that another way of saying he was _wed_? You mean he was wed to Sauron...er Annatar? Confound it! Can we agree to just call him the Dark Lord? By whatever name he was wearing at the moment that is who he was!" Gimli erupted.

Legolas smiled in concession but only spoke of the matter at hand. "To 'wed' ... I suppose that is a mortal way of putting it. But for an elf to wed is more than an exchange of words. To bond, as an elf, means to share one's _fae_. It means the two elves join spiritually to become almost one. They live with the same essence of spirit, the same heart," Legolas said in a voice that grew softer as sentiment overwhelmed him.

"You mean," Gimli stammered, "that by sharing his bed with the Dark Lord, Faeldaer _married_ him!" This seemed to outrage the dwarf as rightly it should have, or so Legolas felt. Gimli seemed to understand the deception.

Still, Legolas did not care to put it in such terms. "It is possible they were bonded, but the truth is I cannot say," he hedged. "Were there words expressed, it might have been. That the vow was made by Faeldaer in a moment of deception -- his love was given to one who misrepresented himself. That makes it false. We might never know. Still, such things have been done before by folk unkind." He looked away then, unable to gaze at the dwarf as he said, "It is a horrible fate to be married off to one for whom you do not share your heart." The elf walked on glancing at Mithtaur who had grown very quiet during this discussion. The glazed look in the Ent's eyes told him that Mithtaur was paying little attention to them.

He could say no more. He tried to bury his feelings but they kept bubbling to the surface. They walked for several minutes in complete silence.

A long pause followed, and then the dwarf quietly asked, "What else is there to know, Legolas?"

Legolas felt as if his chest had collapsed into a tight ball though he feigned ignorance. He felt the urge to get away from this uncomfortable topic. "What else do you know of elves, Gimli? Have the rumors reached you that tell of elves marrying _before _they pass their first century mark?"

Gimli sighed. Staring at the elf knowingly, it was obvious this is not what he had been seeking. But he appeared willing to let the elf slip away from what must be a sore subject, even if it was with resignation. With a shrug he said, "This is not true then?"

Legolas did not look at his friend. He was grateful that Gimli was not pushing him and yet he still felt angry though he could not say why. His voice simmered. "That sorry rumor is yet told? Let me counter it then. Consider that elves physically reach a point of maturity at the half century mark -- something akin to the age of fourteen to eighteen in the years of Man. Given such youth, would it not seem strange for an elf to be wed then, or near that mark, when he barely has lived an adult life?" Legolas responded.

"I suppose," the dwarf answered, but then rebutted, "yet elves are capable at that age of such things as mating, are they not?"

"Yes," Legolas ceded, "but being immortal there are few elves who are in any rush to find their true mate and to bind themselves for all eternity after experiencing life for so little time. At that age, they have only come to recognize their own fae. Why would they then choose to bind it with another, burying who they are in a union with another? It would be an understandable conclusion to make if elves had the same lifespan as Men -- if there was a need to produce offspring and to carry on our race -- but we do not have a mortal lifetime. We have _forever_. Why rush to do something that has no need for rush?"

"They say this is a part of elven tradition," the dwarf argued.

"Who are the _'they'_ that say such things? And by what tradition do they speak?" Legolas suddenly growled. He had not even realized such vehemence lay within him.

Gimli sputtered. "I -- I do not really know. Such are just the tales. No lore-master am I, elf. I just--" He gave a pleading look as if wondering at Legolas' sudden mood shift.

"'_They_' say it is so and according to '_tradition_'? In fact _tradition_ really follows the lines of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. When she joined faer with him, she was long past a millennial age. The Evenstar is over two thousand years old which is a far cry from the century mark others proclaim is the proper time for elves to wed! Elrond and Celebrian... Luthien... those elves disregarded the _tradition_. I can name hundreds of others, not so famous, who did the same! Further, I can name elves who do NOT marry at all, thus breaking the structure of these restrictions of elven life even greater! Does that mean they shall never meet their true heart? I hardly think that true! I think it means they still search and have all of forever to do so!"

Gimli said nothing, and the silence only punctuated Legolas' rage. He marched on, his pace increasing. The elf's fury lay on just the other side of his breath.

"Thranduil," Gimli quietly said. "It is Thranduil again."

Legolas could not speak to that. His heart hurt.

"He wed you off," Gimli continued, grabbing the elf's arm so that he might gaze into Legolas' face. "He did it in this way, through deception." There was pity in his eyes and Legolas nearly cried for it, so confused were his feelings.

His throat suddenly tightened and he found it would not let his voice pass.

"You need say no more. I can guess," the dwarf answered.

Legolas stared forward, resuming his walk, unwilling to make eye contact with his friend. He was not fleeing though that is what he felt like doing.

Gimli kept his pace, hurrying his short legs to keep up as he whispered to the elf. "Why did he do it?" the dwarf asked.

Legolas could not answer this. He had tried many times to piece it out for himself and his answer was only one. He turned on the dwarf. "He needed no reason, Master Dwarf. He was... is the king."

"That is not a reasonable answer!" But it was not Gimli who said this. It was Mithtaur. "All creatures have motivation! They do not act just because they can. If he did this to you, he had his reasons."

Legolas looked with consternation at the Ent. What was it of Mithtaur to speak so? He knew nothing of his life to conclude so much.

He was about to say so but then Gimli spoke. He swiftly changed the topic -- so fast that even Legolas felt his head spin. "Does this place begin to look familiar to you yet, Greywood?" the stout warrior asked in an innocent enough voice as to make the query seem completely disjointed to their conversation. Purposely so, Legolas thought, so the Ent might think this were just another part of his dream.

The Ent's eyes grew wide as he apparently tried to assimilate the conversational shift, glancing first at the dwarf, then the elf, then back at the dwarf. "It looks -- it looks -- it looks somewhat familiar, though it is not my home as I know it."

Gimli eyed the elf warily as if to say this conversation was not done. But he conceded the change in topic at least. "Familiar is a good thing, is it not?"

"It is not home," the Ent said.

"Let us keep looking then," Gimli answered and he seemed to know nothing else should be said of the matter for now.

They traveled on in silence for the next hour as Legolas tried to find feelings of peace within. It was not easy and he knew his spirit touched discomfort in those around him. Were the woods less oppressing, it might have helped. But then he realized his own fatigue and he knew rest would be needed if he were to again find real calm. His troubled thoughts were a weight on him; they wearied him greatly.

And then he began to notice of his friend. If he was worn, then surely Gimli tired even greater. He reminded himself that the dwarf had not slept well the night before, something attributable to Legolas' account. The elf had not slept either, but that was little to him, or at least it would normally be. The heat and unmoving air were wearying and the only thing that kept him going was the idea of reaching the place he had seen in his dream. He felt somehow there that his memories would be less troubling to him there. Though in his right mind he knew no elves existed there any longer, he sensed that just being where they had once been might lessen his ache. Or perhaps it might worsen it. He could not forget that Hollin had caused him sorrow and he wondered again why he was making this journey. If only he had a real answer he might find soothe for his soul, yet he had none.

"Stay here and rest. I am going to climb that rise. I think we have reached the peak," Legolas said, pointing up the slope on the other side of their path.

"I will come with you," Gimli said, refusing to sit.

"I think you should take cover here," Mithtaur said as he gazed to the roof above them.

"Why?" Gimli asked. "Will it rain?" He brushed the sweat from his brow and Legolas could tell he wished it so.

"It will not rain," Legolas said, gazing too at what little of the sky he could see. He was quite practiced in understanding the signs of the weather and by his assessment a heavy rain was still a day away, if not further.

"It will rain," Mithtaur said, spinning himself around as he continued to look up. "I can taste it. Soon."

Legolas smiled to himself, not wishing to contradict their newest friend. The Ent, as he reminded himself again, was not of a sound mind and therefore it would do no good to negate him. But further, he agreed that they should stop. Though he could never say it, he felt Gimli could do with a place to camp. The sleepless night and the wretched humidity had done the dwarf no good, and despite the multiple rests they had taken for the Ent's sake, the dwarf looked drawn with circles beneath his eyes.

"What would you suggest?" Gimli asked, looking upward so that he too might see the sky.

"There," Mithtaur said, pointing to a well-concealed alcove that was rooted at the base of the hill. A grey and decaying tree canopied it, but the roots created a hollow where it dug into the hill. "Narvi oft comes here when his frustrations with Faeldaer get the better of him," the Ent replied and Legolas noticed that his speech had shifted again to present tense.

"Then you know this place," Legolas queried.

"Of course I do," the Ent scoffed. "It is home." But then he settled into his spot fading into the surroundings as if he were another one of the trees.

"Let us go," the elf said, turning back toward the dwarf. "I too think we have arrived."

They rounded the corner and came to a sudden drop off. All the valley and plains were suddenly visible to them then and they could see they had not traveled so very far, only so very high. The trees beneath them were grey and brown and their dreariness was accented by the grimness of the sky. The path ahead led to what appeared to be a walkway, but it fell away, shattering with a stack of boulders and shards of stone spilling around an open gulf. It exposed the river flowing a hundred feet below. The pitch of the slope was nearly perpendicular to it tapering only slightly as it fell to the watery banks. And above, the slope ascended at a less severe angle, disappearing some thirty feet from there.

Legolas began to step out on the path and then stopped as he neared the rift. He reached down and picked up a stone. "Do you know what this is, Gimli?" he asked. "It's Hollin stone. This is the ledge. Where Narvi and the elves entered the cave..."

"And the catapulted parapet was lobbed upon them," the dwarf added, pointing to the remnants of the shaft and the gravely dust that filled the hollow. Legolas saw Gimli coming down to his knees, a prayer spoken in the dwarven tongue passing his lips.

"This is where I will mark his grave," the dwarf finally said as he shifted a few of the stones aside, making a clear spot. He righted one stone and Legolas saw it was smooth enough to make an adequate marker. "Tomorrow I will carve."

Legolas looked up again. "I could climb this," he said, meaning the slope. But he thought better of it. "Mírnen is directly above. But I think there is a way over there that makes it easier to reach," he continued, pointing back in the direction they had come. He could recall somewhat where they were and how to get around.

"Mithtaur will be happy to know it," the dwarf said as he followed the elf back to where they had been.

But when they reached the place where they had left Mithtaur, he was nowhere to be seen. Legolas scanned the trees but could not find the old grey Ent. "He is gone," he said. "Should we try to find him?"

"I think he may have done so in the effort to locate his lost lake. We could follow if you can make anything of his trail, but I think we should rest. Have no doubts for him, elf. In the morn he will likely come with his head set aright. He can show you these lands then. Of course he will also try to introduce you to Faeldaer and the others then too, but that would not be out of character for him," Gimli said chuckling a bit.

Legolas turned his eyes to the hollowed tree thinking perhaps the dwarf was right. He was eager to find Mírnen but he was also suddenly indescribably tired. "Do you think he will back?" he asked as he entered the small hollow.

Gimli laughed, following him. "If he comes back, I wonder more which Mithtaur we would meet -- the Confused Mithtaur or the _Very _Confused Mithtaur?"

And then they both laughed, finding peace for the moment and knowing, as they settled in their gear and broke out a light meal, that their rest would be needed. They had but a small distance to travel but the chasm on the one side of their way was deep and it seemed that, even if they did not cross there they would be going that way. Legolas had yet a tale to tell, and he knew it was time for it to be revealed. The road had been opened to them and it was now time to explore that dangerous path.

**TBC**

**A/N:** What can I say that would be adequate enough excuse for my tardiness? Nothing that I can think of. I am a bad person for keeping you waiting so long. But more is coming...VERY soon. Watch for an update next week!


	20. The Worst of Pains

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Nineteen: The Worst of Pains_

As tired as he was, Legolas had difficulty finding sleep. This was unlike the dwarf who, upon laying out his bedroll and wordlessly devouring a dried meat and waybread supper, instantly fell into slumber. It had still been daylight then though the darkness of this forest made it seem like perpetual dusk; but now it was night. By the elf's reckoning it was nearing the crossing when a new day emerged and he had been listening to Gimli's resonating snore for many hours.

That was not what kept him from sleeping though. His mind ticked over the events of these last many days and the memories of the past wove into them. The effect was disturbing, for Legolas was having difficulty separating them from his present.

Gimli had said he must speak on his hurts if he was to get past them, though how that could help Legolas was unsure. Could anyone but another elf appreciate just how powerful elven memory could be? He had heard Aragorn say much the same to him and he had readily dismissed the idea when it had put been to him then. Now he considered it.

Perhaps there was merit in visiting the past. Small though it was, he had felt some relief in relaying to Gimli the memory of his father's first crime. Talking of his mother's death and the argument with his father and his banishment to the courts thereafter had all had an effect. Though the memories had made him ache, the ease brought by speaking them had felt good, like that of dropping a satchel too heavy.

Still, it was short-lived, and though he might share his pain with his friends it did not take it away completely. The memories did not fade, only the tension of holding them did. He supposed that some respite had been gained though. He would weigh it in his heart. Was it worth unveiling what he kept hidden so well so that he might sleep at night?

Legolas could live without sleep, for a time, but did he want too?

Memory tickled his mind. What was still hidden was the worst of his pains. And now Gimli had guessed at it. This moment of silence came only because the dwarf had succumbed to weariness. That would not last. Like it or not, Gimli would ask him more.

"_He married you off,"_ the dwarf had said, and it had been true. Legolas had not denied it. But sure as he was that Gimli would ask more, the elf found himself alone for the moment with his thoughts.

He glanced down as he thought on this and found his hand had strayed again to that old wound. He twisted his arm away. He needed to remedy that action. It was telltale.

He turned and gazed up to the sky. He could not see it for the trees. _Such a strange forest,_ he thought. _The leaves, brown and withered, cling yet to the branches of trees that are, for all purposes, dead._

He had wanted to see the stars but he knew they were not there. On other nights the sight of them helped him. Their distance and their perpetual light gave him hope. He would never be able to reach them, yet they never failed to appear in the sky, save on nights when the clouds covered them over. Were he in a better state, he would take solace in knowing they were there, shining like beacons beyond the clouds, calling for him to look out and ahead, and not to be held to this world or this one place.

He wished he could see them and that their magic could work for him now. He felt encumbered and burdened, locked down to his past. The hope of the lights was not with him tonight. Heavy like the air, his memories weighed too much.

It did not help either that the sea-longing had begun plaguing him again. In the last few hours it had come. The Ent draught had had a strong and lasting effect on his affliction, but once the sleepiness that came with it wore off, the strange drink could not halt what ailed him. Not forever. Now it was back, that dread and haunting yearning. That did not help his battered spirit either.

The thought of speaking his pain was likened in his mind to touching an open wound. He flinched away from it. Healers' words came to his mind. Many times he had heard it said that a wound must be tended if it is to heal. He wondered now if he had ever really tended these wounds. He knew he had not. He had hidden them away, not willing to let anyone know he had been scarred. And his pains festered into something septic. They were not healing, they were growing worse, a fevered mass. One jab at his passions and his desires had opened the hurt again. This wound must be made to bleed out the infection if he was to live. He did not have a choice.

"Who was it that he married you to?"

It was Gimli's voice that spoke to him from the dark. So distracted Legolas had been that he had not even realized the dwarf had ceased snoring. He looked into the dark corner where he knew his friend lay. The night made his vision dim, but even still he could make out the dwarf's outline reclined upon his mat. He supposed he looked about the same, dark but with the hint of a glow about him.

"She was female, if that is what you wonder," Legolas answered, trying not to sound upset that Gimli had awakened.

A long silence followed, and then, "I had not thought otherwise, but I will not go there. We have talked enough on that topic and I want no more of it. I wanted to know if she had a name."

Now it was Legolas' turn to ponder a response. "Is that important?" he finally replied.

The elf could practically hear the dwarf's brow furrow. "It is if we are going to delve here."

"Then let us not," Legolas said turning his eyes out to the night again. He had to try.

"No, let us. Her name please, elf."

"Ethareil, though it should not matter. She really had little to do with what occurred. She was just another pawn in my father's game," the elf answered. Already he could feel the pain building in his chest.

"Clearly you put this on Thranduil."

"I have put everything on Thranduil," Legolas answered. "Everything we have discussed of late is put upon Thranduil."

"Yet I do not understand why he would do what he did," Gimli said.

Legolas sighed. "Have you not come to see this yet? He has his own reasons. I do not pretend to understand them."

"Surely he told you what his plans were. You did not just up and get married without discussing it," the dwarf harrumphed into the darkness.

"It was a bonding, Gimli, not necessarily a marriage. And no, we did not discuss it, at least not in a reasonable way. He wanted me paired, that is all I can say as to his reasoning."

"Yet this _bonding_... if it is as you explained it earlier, then you... consummated the relationship..."

"That is part of the ritual, dwarf," Legolas said shortly, not wanting to press it, but also knowing his friend would not let him answer half way.

"But you said you did not have feelings for her. And did you not also say that elves only paired in love? How can you consummate a union if it is not, er, felt?" Gimli questioned.

His chest hurt, but at least his hand was nowhere near his thigh. Legolas bowed his head. He had to speak it. The pain would be lessened if he spoke it. He told himself this. Experience had proven that, even it would not necessarily make him whole.

And so he closed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

They had been getting along so well. For four or five years there had been a marked decrease in their arguments and all dismissals and passivity seemed to have faded as well. To his great surprise, Legolas' place had shifted in his father's esteem, and in these last few years he had come to be as he was now, as an advisor and friend. The king was finally hearing him and acknowledging his wisdom, especially in matters of war and battle. That was not a small thing.

Thranduil's respect, and Legolas' in return, had not been an easy thing to gain. Those first years of his tenure had been a torture to him. He was held to an oath he had not wished to take and for the bulk of his time he was ignored, even when he tried to cooperate or make the best of his penance. Years had passed without any consideration given to his advice, and lives were lost as a result of that ignorance. Legolas was actually surprised more had not died in the course of time. But he supposed if one sat idle, the chances of death were less than in engaging an enemy. Yet, death came. Legolas had blamed himself for each one though he could hardly be held accountable.

But those years were past and Legolas was finally seeing reward for his efforts. It had taken some time but he was now admired -- in the courts _and _by his father. He was at last getting the opportunity to use his rank for some good. Of course, he was not given chance to utilize his skills on the field -- Thranduil absolutely forbade him from partaking in military drills, insisting that he stand at the head of his garrisons in decorative gear alone. This was unappealing and had riled Legolas horribly in those first years, but now he saw that patience had paid off. Slowly he had been able to train, albeit through words alone, his underlings. Captains he tutored and lieutenants he fostered so that now, _now,_ he had a warrior force. Geared in strength and battle savvy, this is what he needed to fight their enemy.

Had he not done his deeds, he would still be watching elves die in inordinate numbers, falling to the enemy in disastrous waves of battle. Now they had wins. And he could take credit for being the architect to them. And Thranduil listened to him!

He had not thought it possible, that Thranduil -- his father -- would take his advice. Yet slowly, in that healing time, Legolas had come to understand his father and king. He had come to appreciate what he had been forced to learn. The king had been right; if Legolas was to lead he had to do so through delegation. He could not put his life on the line and be the first in the charge. He served none, save the enemy, dead. He had to pull back.

But further he came to see that what had happened between he and his father -- that horrible day --- the stabbing -- the blame -- were the results of something unwanted and unplanned. They came from fear and guilt, on both of their parts.

For Legolas, his departure immediately following his recovery from the stabbing wound was precipitated by fear. He was afraid of his father and his own guilt for not acting quickly enough to save his mother. And he knew that had he not presented the candles to her she would still be alive.

For Thranduil and his domineering insistences, Legolas came to realize the same feelings lived. His father also had been plagued by his own guilt and fear. The guilt was easy to see; Thranduil was horribly afflicted by sorrow over the physical and emotional wound he had delivered unto Legolas, and of course the death of his wife. At the same time, he felt fear that his son might die in battle before they could reconcile their differences.

Was this not ironic? But again, Thranduil's actions had been right. By countering the fear in both -- Legolas realizing he need not fear his father and Thranduil finding way to keep his son safe -- they were able to face their differences together. And though they might never fully overcome it, they could try to mend some of the damage.

It was not easy. Trust was key to defeating that beast and time was the element that made trust come. The truce arrived but it was hard fought. Legolas, with hindsight, could see this was his fault. He had been outwardly disdainful in those early years. Days in Thranduil's court had been uncomfortable because Legolas had chosen they should be. At the time he had thought it was the king making it difficult. Now he saw it had been him.

He and Thranduil now engaged in moments of laughter and frank confession. With time they had developed a father-son relationship.

And with that came other trusts, the kind where one allows himself to be molded in a form that pleases another. Legolas let this happen. It was nothing much truly, just areas of taste. In these past five years, the young elf had found himself more willing to match a style that had previously not been his. Food, wine, and dress were the areas of his change. Thranduil showed expert knowledge in weapon craftsmanship, and of course, goldsmithing and jewels. As most any elf, Legolas appreciated the radiance and beauty of such things, but these latter two did not enthrall him like they did Thranduil. The rest he was willing to take tutelage to, but for hoarding riches he saw little purpose. Here he differed with his father.

There was one other area he and his father disagreed on and that was the one catering to the bonds matrimony.

In brief, Thranduil wanted Legolas paired. Now.

This had caused loud arguments early on. Now, after so many years without making headway, Legolas' father had ceased harping his case and only occasionally hinted at his desires, usually accompanying them with a comment about his not getting any younger and being too aged to bounce grandchildren upon his knee. It was a joke and Legolas always laughed at it.

In those early days, Thranduil had gone so far as to threaten to marry Legolas off against his will. The king cited the Laws and Customs (the ones Gimli also seemed to be familiar with) as his reasoning. And Legolas had argued his response (using the same counterpoints he had replied to Gimli). It did not matter. Thranduil demanded it. And in this case he lost in his demands. He could not sway Legolas to his reasoning.

Fortunately, their relationship was presently good enough that Thranduil did not have to belabor his arguments. Legolas knew where he stood, and Thranduil knew where Legolas stood. It was more for old time's sake that the conversation of finding a mate yet existed.

Such was the limit of any contention between them. It was minor at best.

If only there were not those looks, Legolas could have found complete ease. The glances Thranduil made were not overt; in fact, often Legolas caught them fleetingly in moments when Thranduil did not think he was espied. But more and more now he was seeing them. They were pained, desperate glances with the king's brow pinched into a worried expression. An instant later they were gone. It made the young elf wonder what might about him might make the king fret so.

_Is it that I, on occasion, have pled to be allowed a return to the field?_ Legolas considered. He shook the thought away. _Ai, Father, you need not worry. These current victories are proof that I can have success while sitting at your side. I have learned my studies well. I have chosen to stay and rule here._ He thought perhaps he should tell Thranduil this but the opportunity had not presented itself yet. He felt no need to rush it; elves were eternal and tomorrow and then another tomorrow would come. He would save the news for a day he could brighten for his king, for he felt certain Thranduil would rejoice.

_Yes, I must say something soon,_ Legolas thought as a bubbling laugh reached his ears. Just because Legolas had made it clear he would not join with another did not mean that Thranduil ceased from inviting maidens of his choosing to be around. The hint was implied. Legolas understood. The king thought if Legolas' heart became ensnared he would stay put. _I know that is what he does, yet he should speak more plainly if that is his goal. I would set his mind right._

And indeed, the current maiden that Thranduil tendered was lovely enough. Fair-haired and graceful, Ethariel and Legolas would have created beautiful offspring together. That seemed to be all Thranduil measured in his assessment of a bride. Apparently he hadn't noticed that this particular maiden was vapid. If appearance was all it took to merit his heart, she would have suited the task well. But Legolas felt nothing for her. In fact she bored him terribly.

"Why should I bind myself for eternity to one whose company I cannot stand?" he had asked Thranduil in earlier days.

"Few elves couple forever, even when their feär are bound. You only need be with her long enough to husband," the king would reply.

"By that you mean to bring forth children," Legolas would grumble.

"I mean to learn the role of a protector," Thranduil quipped. "Love will come with your binding. You will see."

"I see only that should I join spirits, I will be further trapped," Legolas would whisper beneath his breath. The king did not hear, or if he did he pretended not to.

That sentiment was no longer true, at least not in its entirety. Healing had occurred and Legolas did not resent his father. Given the chance to make the same comment again, the elf likely would have said nothing; he no longer believed he was trapped.

This pursuit on Thranduil's part did make Legolas wonder though about what went into the true ties of bound feär. He questioned everyone he knew who lived in a marital state and he found some interesting facts. Those of Sindar background had tended to follow tradition as Thranduil relayed it; meanwhile those of Silvan descent usually scoffed at any notion of traditions and customs. All, however, maintained that their binding, howsoever they chose it, became a truth to them. They claimed that their love for their mate was indeed an eternal one. Even those who had entered their union with tentative feelings came to bear greater emotional bonds once their feär were tied.

That scared Legolas in ways he could not express while awing him at the same time. The power of two souls uniting must hold incredible strength if it could turn one's heart!

From that day forward, he became serious about the subject. He knew that he could not bind with another unless he was sure of it. That, he came to believe, was where the true greatness of love lay. If he bound with the right soul, he -- they -- would be eternal in the most wonderful of ways, and _that_ is what he wanted.

And because of that, he decided that his virtue must be saved. He did not cavort in superficial ways as other elves might (especially the Silvan folk). Not that he felt disdain for any who did, it was just a personal choice he had made for himself. He remained chaste because he wanted his first experience to be with the one he wed his heart to. He wanted his love to be intact.

Yet there was another reason that Legolas was reticent to speak. More than wanting to be true to only one, he also, secretly, feared the power of such a thing. Though he understood there was more to binding souls than just coupling in sexual union -- he had been told it was so by the more promiscuous elves in his friendship –he was afraid that the experience would carry him away so far that he would bind himself without meaning to. He did not want to be an innocent, but he recognized how powerful elven emotions could be and how susceptible that made him. It was easier by far to practice abstinence.

But then came that night...

Thranduil had been in a grand mood, and the drinks had been plentiful. Of late the king had been generous and complimentary in calling forth celebration, and this night the recipient was none other than Legolas Thranduilion. Legolas was feeling the effects of these good spirits, not thinking to pass on good wine and certainly enjoying the praise delivered him. His troops had won a major battle. They had reclaimed a portion of the south that had not been theirs for many a year. Unlike times past, Thranduil was applauding the victory. As well he should. The victory had been so great, it was almost as if the enemy had bowed down to his forces. His legions had been merciless and strong.

Legolas laughed at the merriment in the hall. The heady feeling of the win was almost as strong as the wine. He did not even mind that Ethariel sat beside him at the dais that night.

"Is she not lovely?" Thranduil asked, nodding his head at the dancing maiden. She was spiraling in a circle of green silk, the color like that of new leaves, and Legolas had to admit she was indeed quite becoming.

"Aye," he said, knowing to say more was an invitation to again discuss matrimony.

He glanced around the room, shying his eyes away from his father's gaze. The king wanted to say more but Legolas did not want to speak on it. He watched his kin instead. The Silvan folk bettered his task. They danced around the room, drunken and happy and Legolas admired them for their single-mindedness. They were an easy people, eager to please, always willing to obey, finding joy in the simplest of things.

That easy acceptance was what made Mirkwood their kingdom. It was his grandfather and father who had entered this realm and made claim to it. The Silvans had not complained or fought the conquest in any way. It seemed more that they shrugged and accepted this fate, much the same way that the enemy had succumbed to Legolas' forces.

Yet Legolas noted that, despite their easy happiness, the Silvan's never really adopted the idea that Thranduil was truly their king. He was a figurehead to them, a guardian father. Truly they felt these lands were not to be ruled by anyone; it was more that the forest was simply theirs to live in for a time, borrowed from those greater than they. And as such, it seemed that they were able to follow a king's dictates, so long as he did not harm what the gods had graced them with.

_Such passivity,_ he thought.

Perhaps this gentle calm was what made Ethariel so uninteresting to him. She was fully of Silvan blood, and though he respected and adored the kind hearts of these people, he found it difficult to spark a fire in them. Impassioned only when there was their utmost survival at stake, they coasted gently through the world, pleasant, endearing, amusing... and empty. He watched Ethariel again as she completed the dance. Yes, she was beautiful, but she was uninteresting. He wondered briefly if there was anything that impassioned her.

"What a frown!" the king cried, interrupting his thoughts by lightly brushing a finger under Legolas' chin. "This will not do. This party is in your honor. Drink! Drink up!"

Legolas realized a cup had been put before him and he gave a sly smile to his father. "Do you try to get me drunk, my lord?" he asked.

"Of course! On this night it would make it all the better to take advantage of your good will. Indulge and make merry!" Thranduil said with good cheer.

"Pour me another then," Legolas chuckled as he downed his cup and held it out for more.

The king filled his cup. A flash of opal and gold caught Legolas' eye and he followed the flash realizing for the first time that his father wore a ring. He had never noticed it, but before he could question it, Thranduil continued his thoughts. "Do not lose your mind to drink too completely, for I have a gift for you that I would like you clear-headed enough to enjoy. At least modestly," he winked and the question of the ring was gone from Legolas' mind.

"Show it to me now then," he said, smiling as he nodded to the refilled vessel. "I am yet sober, though not for long."

"Nay, not yet," the king answered turning away and watching the dancers again. "It is not quite ready." He then rose from his chair and walked the dance floor to the pink-cheeked Ethariel.

With short words passed, the king gathered the maiden in his arms and stepped into the music's timing. They danced the floor together in a whirl of green and gold laughter. But there was a fleeting moment when Legolas thought he caught that expression of desperation come from his father. In another spin it was gone, replaced by one of firm resolve. And then Thranduil no longer looked at him, his focus once again on the maiden. Yet Legolas' instincts were afire and something within him told him to flee. It was the briefest of sensations, and it was chased away as a familiar hand squeezed his shoulder.

He gazed up to find an old friend smiling at him, and a moment later their converse led to a full disclosure of the recent battle. Legolas glanced again toward his father. The music had slowed, moving to a different type of dance. He watched as the king leaned forward and whispered words into the maiden's delicate ear. Ethariel nodded and said something in return, but Legolas' attention refocused on a query by his friend.

Legolas then found himself being led to a table where several warriors and captains sat. These were not elves of Legolas' garrison; they were only learning of the battle through word passed around the room. They were thrilled to find Legolas now sitting amongst them. More drinks were poured.

When Legolas next glanced up to the dance floor he saw that Ethariel was gone and that Thranduil was engaged in tableside conversation with several of his officers. Legolas went back to his own conversation, thinking nothing more of Ethariel and her engagement with his father.

It was just a few hours before dawn when another hand fell on Legolas' shoulder. The young elf glanced up, realizing only now that he had been talking all these hours. His head was light from drink and the room softly swayed. Alive with good humor and the camaraderie of friends, he was not ready to call the night to an end despite the fact that the elves of the kitchen were consolidating and clearing food. The hand squeezed his shoulder and Legolas made eye contact with his father.

"Come. It is time," Thranduil said with a sly smile reminding the young prince there was a surprise yet awaiting him. Legolas smiled back eagerly, but felt subtle warning feather over him when the king's expression did not soften. Still, he made his farewells to his companions and obediently rose to follow.

"Where do you take me, Father?" Legolas asked trying to ignore the troubling tickle at the edges of his mind. He felt at a complete loss for what was to come and was uncertain as to whether he should feel hesitant.

But Thranduil's answering chuckle put him at immediate ease and his trepidation fell away. "I take you to my rooms," the king answered. "I had told you there was a gift awaiting you, and I think that is the best place to unveil it."

As the pair walked down the hall to the king's rooms, Legolas stumbled a bit. Thranduil chuckled good-humoredly at this, putting his arm about his son to steady him, and Legolas laughed along. It was probably better he accept his slight inebriation, for there was no denying it really. The king had found it very amusing over time to find his son could not drink as heartily as he could. Then again, there were few who truly could. Besides, even if Legolas did have the ability to compete with his father on equal footing in drink, it would likely only disturb the older elf to be so challenged. Thranduil hated to lose at anything and would have put his son to contest back in his quarters if Legolas denied his state.

"I must disappoint you, Father. You wanted me clear-headed for this and I am afraid I cannot oblige," Legolas remarked with a slight slur to his speech. He actually enjoyed the feeling of his father's protective arm about him and almost said as much.

"Nay, you are just as I would have you," Thranduil replied, tugging the elf closer as they rounded a corner in the hall and Legolas felt a sense of complete trust and love.

And then they were at the magnificent doors to Thranduil's rooms. As they entered the king's suite, Legolas' eyes fell upon what he suspected was his surprise. A box was placed on the center hall table in clear view of their passage.

The king led Legolas to a chair in the sitting room where the young elf dutifully deposited himself. But his eyes turned back to the box.

Thranduil watched him for a moment, his expression denoting nothing of his thoughts, and then he walked back to the entryway. He stood for a moment, gazing at the object as if contemplating it, and then his hands slid over the panels of the box, lightly, as if he were almost afraid to touch it.

Then gracefully he lifted it and carried it to his son.

The box was no bigger than a book and surprisingly light as it was place in Legolas' lap. It was ebony-polished with an inlay of vines and leaf patterns, tightly arrayed in an intricate display that took Legolas' breath away. He had seen treasures before, but never one like this. He felt instant fascination and appreciation for the object, almost afraid to touch it. Was this the surprise his father had spoken of? If so, it was an admirable gift.

Thranduil noticed his trembling awe. He paused for a moment, as if weighing a thought, and then he knelt down to where his son sat and fingered the lid. "It came for me. "

Legolas felt a twinge of disappointment that this was a gift for Thranduil, not him, but he also could not help but wish to look inside. He had no idea who would send Thranduil a gift such as this. A nagging thought reminded him that a similar gift had come the same way, and that one had brought about the death of his mother. "What is it?" he asked, unable, despite his concerns, to break his eyes away.

Thranduil smiled as he lifted the lid.

An aroma filled the room, and the scent was a heady thing. Legolas found himself falling back into the chair. But then gripping the arms, he sat up and gazed inside the box to see an assortment of confections. It was a cornucopia of tastes, and Legolas' mouth watered with the scent of them despite the fact that he had felt no hunger previously. His fingers reached toward the box without his conscious thought.

A hand touched his wrist, soft pressure applied to halt his movement.

Startled, Legolas looked up, uncertain why he was being stopped, but then realized his poor behavior. The sweets were not his and had not been offered to him "Wh-who," he stammered. "Who sent you this?" It was overwhelming to think anyone could create confections with a magical aroma such as these.

"Just a friend. It has been many years," Thranduil said, ending his answer there as he stared down into the box. He took a cake from the box and lifted it to his mouth. Eyes closed in ecstatic pleasure. The king inhaled a joyous breath. "Glorious!"

"Who-who is he?" Legolas asked, still fighting his desire to take one. Perhaps it was the drink, but Legolas was having a very difficult time thinking with that smell.

"It is not important. Have one," the elder offered.

Troubled nagging stirred in the back of Legolas' brain, but the scent overruled it. Legolas could not think straight. He was delving into the box immediately. His mouth filled with flavor even before the sweet reached his lips.

One small bite, and he nearly threw his head back with the ecstasy of taste. "Oh," he gasped, finding he could not imagine anything better than this. His hand dropped to his side and the box in his lap nearly slid away. Were it not for Thranduil catching it, the floor would have been littered with the candies. Legolas was both aware of this and void of the thought. He was aware though that the treat he had held fell away from his hand. Limply he fell back into the chair. Vaguely he saw his father retrieve the candy from the chair cushions, the gold ring on his forefinger blurring in his hazy vision.

"Waste not," Thranduil said as he popped the rest of the sweet into Legolas' mouth. The elf could not contain himself, so weighted down did he suddenly feel, and he found he was leaning heavily into the chair.

The king chuckled as he closed the lid to the box now sitting on the floor. "But that is not the gift I had for you. Come."

Legolas could feel himself being lifted to his feet and led away. The other room felt like it was miles from him. He thought he could hear a noise from within, but he could not place it. And then the door was opened, and they were inside. The room was spinning and he could barely make out the difference between ceiling and floor. But then he realized there was someone else within. A woman. A maiden. Or was it two. She -- they were coming toward him. They were speaking but he could not make out the sound. Only Thranduil's voice penetrated the whirlwind of chaos.

"Here he is my dear, just as promised."

More words were said, laughter and giggles, and then there were hands upon him.

"Who--?" he began, but he could not put together coherent thought.

"Sit, my son. I think the wine has gone to your head."

"Perhaps tonight is not such a good idea, my lord," a female voice -- Ethariel -- said. "Perhaps we should do this on another night."

"Nonsense. He will be fine. Look, he comes around now."

Legolas lifted his head. It felt so very heavy but he managed to find the strength. "Whatisthis?" he slurred.

The king's deep rumble of a laugh echoed in his ears. Hands were upon him, but he could not make out where they came from. "I had told you. It is a gift."

"Gift?" Legolas managed.

Hands were everywhere. They were a caress upon his flesh. Massaging, pressing, pulling and urging. They were just as enticing and fulfilling as the confection he had been given before. "Ah," he moaned.

"See," Thranduil was saying. "His body is awake."

"Nay," Legolas said as the slow realization of what was happening came to him.

"Let us lay him down," his father said.

"Please...no," Legolas said. But he had no control. His arms did not work. His legs did not work. All that was alive of him was the sweet sensation upon his flesh. It felt so "...Good..." He could not help himself.

His body was lifted, carried to a bed, laid inert upon the coverlet. The clothing was shed from his body, and he lay naked. It was as if he were in a dream. None of this seemed real.

"You will love this. Feel it...it is good."

And there were the hands again, stroking him, caressing...

"Oh..." He sighed.

"Yes, there you see...Enjoy this...Enjoy..."

It felt wonderful!

"No," he protested. It was but a whisper.

He heard his father say something, his breath quickening and deep. A cup was put to his lips and the bitter taste of wine spilled into his throat. A rivulet of the liquid trickled down his chin and into the crook of his neck. And then lips were licking it away and the hands were upon him again. The ecstasy was unbelievable.

"Now you shall act," his father intoned. Legolas grew confused by the command's meaning. But then the female was speaking and he understood the ritual. Immediately he realized what this was. He wanted none of it. Yet his mouth moved and sound passed from his lips. He barely understood the words. He tried not to speak but it was as if an enchantment had been cast upon him. He had no choice.

His father was breathing heavily, as was he, and then it was no longer hands upon him. There was a body, pressing, pressing. Pushing in such an exhilarating way. And then he was surrounded, encased. The caress was upon him. Everywhere. The words. Everywhere. Bodies atop him, stroking, inviting him into an ecstasy he had never known. And the words were there, chanting out an oath. Hands. Hands. Stroking. Everywhere. It felt... it felt... He wanted it. He...wanted.

The moan that poured from him grew louder and more acute as his breath...his heart... raced. He could not help himself. There was no refrain.

And then the culmination of all these sensations exploded and he was feet above, floating on air, rocking to the spasm of white light pulling his spirit away. He was consumed. He was lost.

When he found the will to open his eyes, his father was the only one left. The older elf was eased back in a chair on the far side of the room. "I am very pleased."

"Wha... happened?" the young elf asked, hoping what had occurred had been just a horrible dream.

"You performed just the way I had thought you would," the king said. With a sickening dread that made him feel weak, Legolas realized it had been real.

"Why... ?" Legolas managed to ask as he attempted to raise himself from the bed. The room spun and an excruciating pain filled his skull.

"Need you ask?"

And then a rage took over him and he could no more contain it than he could contain what had occurred to him. "I said 'no'!"

"You appeared to want it."

"I said 'no'!"

"It is done now."

"I had said 'no'," Legolas whispered as he began to crawl from the bed. His eyes would not focus and he did not see his clothing anywhere.

"I have what I wanted. You are now bonded. No more shall I hear petitions from you asking for return to the field. You will remain in my court."

"Is that...? But I ... I was going nowhere! I was not leaving! You horrible fool! You could have asked me ... How- How could...? I had chosen to stay! This was unnecessary!" He gathered up the coverlet instead, struggling against the pull of the sheets to wrap it around him.

"I... Nay! You would have left had I not insured against it. I do not regret my actions. I did what I had to in order to keep you safe!"

Legolas rounded on his father. "You kept me safe...? How ... how was I safe? You used me!"

"You would not discuss it!"

"You would not hear me! You do not hear me! I said 'no!'"

"Your mother would have wanted you joined."

"Not like this! Never like this! Oh, Father, how many times are you going to invoke that as your defense? You defile the memory of her with your weak excuses!"

Thranduil looked away. "Nothing has occurred here that is not as it should have been. Were you as I was to my father, this would not have been forced."

"I do not know how you were as a son to your father, but I do not think Oropher forced you into relationships you did not want!"

"No, he only destroyed those I had!" Thranduil said as he imposed himself over his son. The ferocity of his gaze forced Legolas' eyes down.

The elf noticed again the ring on his father's hand. "Where did you get that?" he asked.

"Now we shall move on to things of greater concern," Thranduil said, pulling his hand out of eyeshot.

Legolas stopped tugging at the cloth and trippingly came to stand before his father. "I have never noticed it before. Where did you get it?" he asked as he tried to pull his father's hand into sight.

"It is mine! Leave off!" the king said, pushing the elf away.

"Where did you get it? Is it from the person who sent you the chocolates? Is it from the person who delivered the candles unto her?" Legolas pressed.

"That is of no concern of yours!"

"It is! Those implements were bewitched. That ring... Oh, Father!" Legolas gasped as the pieces suddenly slid into place. "You are in legion with Sauron!"

"In legion with Sauron," Thranduil exclaimed. "How dare you accuse me so?"

Legolas took several steps back. "Oh, what a fool! I should not have let you into my heart. How could I have fallen for your ruse? You are a monster!"

Anger came into Thranduil's eyes. "Mind your tongue, child!"

"Mind yours, Father! Thanks to you, I have become something greater than a _child_. I am now fully matured. I am wed!"

"You will thank me in the end."

"You are wrong!" Legolas backed away. His muddled mind tried to piece together the recent events. "Was the battle victory a ruse as well? Were you in accord with the Dark Lord in this too?"

He could not look at Thranduil then. "Oh, who is the fool here? Ai! Why did I not see?"

"You see nothing! You do not understand," Thranduil answered as he stepped toward his son.

Legolas jumped back as if his father's touch was poison. "This is your legacy! Are you proud?"

"You do not understand!"

"Then explain!" Legolas roared with contempt.

"It is not so easy," the elf king said gazing down at his hand. Legolas followed his eyes and now realized the ring was gone.

"You are his pawn!" Legolas gasped. His eyes widened with the accusation. "You are spawn to his whims."

"No!" Thranduil answered, stepping again toward his son.

Legolas backed away. "You have sired my contempt! Are you now proud of what you have bred?"

"Stop! You must let me... I cannot ... it is not easy to explain!"

"You are a demon! You are a colluder! How could I have believed in you?" Legolas rounded on the king.

Thranduil stood. He seemed to tower over Legolas, and the young elf felt disoriented and did not anticipate what was to come next. In a blinding flash, he felt a sharp crack cuff the side of his head, the golden ring connecting at his temple and making his ears ring. And then Legolas found himself sprawled upon the floor.

"I have only tried to help you. My actions were for you!"

"Do nothing for me! I want none of your aid!" Legolas cried.

A bare foot kicked at him and the elf doubled up. "I tire of your ingratitude!" The taste of wine and a wretched sweetness backed up in his throat. He began to vomit. "You will cease that now!" his father was screaming in his ear. He was being yanked to his feet by the fabric of his hair. "Get out! Leave me! You deserve not to be called son of mine!"

Legolas pulled himself away from his father's grip. Naked and shaking with both illness and rage, he cried, "Worry not, my lord! I disavow any relation. No son of a king shall I be!"

"You cannot release me," Thranduil cried.

"Then you release me! Call me a lowly common blood, for that is what I prefer. If king and crown are permitted to defile what is sacred then I wish not to be tied to that title."

"The title is yours. Wear it or not, I care none. But if you would not be loyal to me, I would not have you here!" Thranduil raged.

White stars flashed in Legolas' eyes and then he felt as if he was being thrown, tossed into a wall. He was helpless to defend himself. His bare feet felt the hall floor beneath him. An instant later he was crumpled upon it. His head was spinning again, and then all went black.

He was not sure how he had managed to get to his room, but somehow in the light of day he found himself there. He spent the next day nursing bruises and trying to recover from his illness.

The day after, he packed his gear and he mounted his horse. He rode south from there and rejoined the corps he had left years before. He had no orders or papers to dictate his post, but he immediately resumed his former rank. No one among his troops questioned his return. They were loyal to him, as they always had been.

**TBC**


	21. Words for Pity and Rain

**A/N: **Greetings! I know it has been a long while and I know this is a short chapter compared to what I usually put out, but it doesn't really work with the next chapter (Ooh, did I just imply there is a _next_ chapter sitting here waiting in the wings? Silly me!). But there are things here -- subtle things -- that had to be said for the sake of future chapters (Oops, I did it again! So sorry.). Enjoy!

** Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Twenty: Words for Pity and Rain_

Had circumstances been different, Gimli might have been laughing. It was not often he had the chance to openly mock Legolas. Well, at least it was not often he could mock Legolas with proven flaw. But here he had it. Proof positive. Legolas was wrong. Unfortunately, this was an occasion when he would have to let the pleasure of pointing out his victory go.

It was raining. It was raining and that was worth his mirth because Legolas had said it would not rain. And yet here it was. Rain. He should be laughing. How he would have welcomed the sound.

Instead, he and the elf sat in their shelter beneath the dead tree as subtle light drew shade away from the forest. Night turned into drizzling morn. They had said nothing in the hours since Legolas had relayed the last part of his tale, and that sat over them like the darkness of night. But what could be said? The story Legolas told was repellent. In fact, Gimli seethed with rage the more he thought on it.

What boggled him though, more than the motives a father might have for committing such a heinous crime, was that, prior to the news delivered by Galadriel, Legolas had actually been preparing himself to _forgive_ his father. Forgive! Gimli could imagine no such thing as a pardon for Thranduil's crimes. To him, even if a lifetime or two of a dwarf had passed since Legolas' unwanted binding, it was not long enough. The betrayal was too deep! Virtue was lost. That could not be replaced!

It seemed there were those who might argue the legitimacy of the bonding his father had forced. It was rather clear that there had been no love between Legolas and the maiden, Ethariel -- _was that her name?_ A marriage could not have possibly been made. Besides, Legolas was not in a fair state of mind when the actions happened. With any semblance of law, it was clear a bond could not be sanctioned.

Yet was elven marriage something that was affirmed by law? It seemed to him that the bond was something made more in the eyes of the gods. How would they judge it? Could it be a bond if there was not a tying of souls? It was not clear if there had been. Was there another metric to measure a bond?

It was said there was magic in elven ritual, and if something _had_ passed between Legolas and this maiden, Gimli then worried if Legolas' opportunity to bond with his true soul mate had been lost. Had his one chance to marry for love been taken from him? Gimli did not think elves could take a second love. He didn't know enough Elven history to cite examples to prove the contrary. If the bond was real, that is what Legolas now faced. Elves were eternal, and their bond, supposedly, was with one alone. If a mistake was made, and their hearts were given to the wrong one, then they would live with their error forever. _Forever._

That would mean that Legolas would live forever without knowing love. And that was a terrible thought._ And Legolas had been prepared to forgive that?_

The dwarf looked at the elf. He had it in his mind to question him on this when he realized Legolas was asleep. Sitting up, with his back against the pocked earth, the elf's eyes were open and even followed Gimli's movements, but they were dim, without the light that marked his waking hours. Further, his breath was slow and even. Sleep. It was a strange thing to behold in an elf. Legolas did not really look to be drowsing. Yet Gimli knew the telltale signs.

Or more correctly, at least now he knew them. It had not always been so.

He could recall his shock the first time he had seen Legolas sleep. The dwarf had been convinced, as rumor told, that elves did _not_ sleep. All those first nights of the quest, Gimli had been certain Legolas had been awake and had been staring at him ceaselessly, just to annoy him. It was after a week of this that he had finally had enough and was ready to make a disparaging remark when Aragorn had shushed him and told him the elf slept. At first Gimli did not believe him. He was certain Legolas was out to act a burr in his side, but when he looked more intently, he saw Aragorn was right. So this was the manner of an elf in reverie? He began to understand then where falsehoods were derived. To an untrained eye, it appeared elves indeed did not sleep. Rumor could be wrong.

But sleeping with eyes open, even watching, had been nothing compared to what really could be accomplished by an elf. The dwarf realized the greater measure of his friend's skill when the three hunters had chased the orc pack in search of Merry and Pippin. Legolas had run across the plains of Rohan without misstep, and during parts of it, he realized, Legolas had then been in a state of reverie. He had been sleeping and running at the same time! Such a feat amazed Gimli, even now.

The dwarf stepped forward to the overhang and gazed up at the sky. It was hidden from sight by the crisscrossing branches above them. He could only guess that it was grey and overcast. The rain was telling at least. A continuous drizzle fell down upon them.

Perhaps he would mock Legolas for the rain anyway. Something needed to be said if they were going to resume their usual ways. It would not be easy. The story Legolas told was quite disturbing and at this moment he did not think he was capable of feeling anything but--

"Do not do that," the elf said from behind him.

Gimli did not start at the interruption. He had become somewhat used to the suddenness of elves. He shook his head, shushing the elf with an exaggerated gesture. "Keep it down, please. You are sleeping."

"Even still, do not do that."

"Do what?" the dwarf asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"Do not feel pity for me," Legolas supplied, as he shrugged the stiffness out of his neck.

"What makes you think I feel pity?" Gimli asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"You reek of it."

"I reek of nothing," he replied in irritation.

The elf's nose came up, sniffing the air. His mouth turned down in a frown as if he disagreed and could think of many things to say to counter that comment. Gimli steeled himself for the insult, but it never came. Instead the elf uncharacteristically kept to the subject. "You did not start with pity. At first, when I told you what my father had done, there was shock. Then your feelings turned toward anger. But in the last hour or so you have been moved to feel pity."

"You cannot know that. You have been sleeping," Gimli growled.

"You do no deny it," the elf pointed out.

"Dwarves do not have a word for pity."

Legolas blinked at the admission. He paused, as if digesting that bit of information, and then said, "That does not mean you cannot feel it."

"If we know not the word, how can we feel it?" Gimli asked, eager to engage the elf.

Legolas sighed as if he knew he were being baited. "Do you really want me to regale you with comments now as to why this makes you the lesser being?"

Gimli half-smiled to himself. "If it means some amusement can be resumed between us, then I would."

"All of which just proves your pity," Legolas said with disgust.

"Nay. It proves I was wrong to push you. I am sorry I ever made you reveal your true story," the dwarf said, trying to keep his voice light even though his stomach knotted.

"And still there is pity," the elf muttered in sing-song fashion, looking up to the ceiling as if talking to the tree roots that hung over their heads.

"Can we not just laugh a bit and get on with it?" Gimli pleaded softly, knowing he was asking the impossible. Blithe rejoinder might be the surface response for an elf, but Gimli knew the reality of elven reactions. They ran deep. Elves did not lightly let things go.

"We can once you stop acting this way," Legolas replied, and there was irritation in his voice as he said it.

"I do not know how to stop feeling what I feel," Gimli confessed, not finding a way to counter the response with a joke.

"There! There you admit you feel something akin to pity," the elf pressed, but he was smiling.

"I suppose," Gimli grumbled but it was a surrender that was partially put on.

"Good. You admit it. You have now risen to a level of higher esteem in elven custom."

But Gimli did not understand what Legolas meant. "Eh?"

The elf explained. "You now have 'pity' as a word to equate with your feelings. You have evolved into a higher form of dwarf. I may yet turn you into an elf."

"Now you insult me!" Gimli harrumphed, but it was all for show.

"Too bad you still carry that stench," Legolas said, again wrinkling up his nose.

"I do not have a bad smell!" Gimli roared.

"Outwardly..." Legolas began, his lips curling up at a joke dancing in his mind. But then he reined his thoughts in. "Nay, you are too easy a target. I speak on the scent of pity. It still lingers on you. But now that you have word for the emotion you carried, you will now cease it so that we might breathe freely again."

Breathe freely? As if it were Gimli who put the pressure upon them? He harrumphed, not accepting the blame. "It is a task easier to ask than accomplish. I am what I am and the air grows tight because the memory lingers. How am I to put aside a feeling created out of concern?"

"I would ask that you look to my reaction then."

"Your reaction? You have been mired in self-pity for days -- nay, weeks now! If nothing else, I am finally in the same realm as you!" Gimli vehemently rebutted.

"In the last few weeks before the telling, aye, it is so. But now that I have divulged it, I am not immersed in the memories as you might expect I would be," Legolas said.

"It is a good show," Gimli said, "but I believe you hurt still."

"Nay, it is no show. I thought it would be much the same for me, but contrary to my fears, I feel amazingly relieved."

The dwarf looked at Legolas and realized that indeed there was a sense of calm to his friend. Well, near calm. He considered it for a moment, and then he said, "There is still the sea-longing about you."

The elf smiled sadly. "There will always be that..." He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as if to strengthen his being once more. And then he opened his eyes and peered closely at the dwarf. "But the self-pity is gone. Perhaps I should have done this much sooner, Gimli. I have you to thank. You pushed me to speak when I did not want to. I realize now I had to face my past. Otherwise I would continue to avoid it."

He then smiled, more to himself than the dwarf it seemed. "Do not feel pity for me. I feel none for myself."

Although that was very reassuring, Gimli could not stop the hurt he felt within. "What would you have me do, Elf? My feeling do not just light up and blow out like a candle."

"Metaphorically, they are more like a burning log. But they can be dimmed. Simply be honest with me, Gimli. Say what you will and do not think on how I might react -- just as you would on any other occasion," Legolas said, gently smiling.

The dwarf thought on this for a moment and then smiled deciding the elf's mood could indeed lift him. He _had _been the one pulling the breath from them.

He almost laughed. "'On any other occasion,' you say?" He did not wait for the elf to respond. "Let me be the first to point out then that it is raining."

The elf gazed at him, perplexed, but then he smiled too, relief breaking the crease across his brow. He glanced up at the sky. "I see no rain."

The dwarf shook his head, gentle exasperation mingling with his relieved humor. "Nay, it rains. _You said_ it would not." He pointed at the dead landscape. "Wetness is upon the ground, in the air. It dampens my skin, makes the air hard to breathe -- and that is not by my cause! I call this rain."

Legolas nodded. "It is true that the air is still thick -- and not from you. The temperatures have not eased."

"You are avoiding an answer to me," Gimli pointed out, pleased that Legolas fell into his part of their game. "Admit to the rain," he demanded.

"I do not avoid. I simply observe. This is not rain. It is drizzle," Legolas explained.

The dwarf barked out a laugh. "There is a difference?" Gimli asked with amusement.

"Most definitely. It will become apparent later today when it truly does rain."

Gimli stymied a refrain. The elf was encouraging the change, and normally he would comply. But anger and concern still resided within him. He felt the tension rise again, and indeed it was his doing. He needed to conclude their earlier talk. He could not evade a serious topic even if the elf felt relieved of it. "You are wrong, Legolas."

"Wrong? Nay, you need only be an elf to know there are many words for rain, and that many again for drizzle. Ask any elf and you will be put aright on how you define this weather," Legolas teased.

"No, you are wrong, Legolas, and I speak _not _about the rain. You are wrong about my mood," Gimli asserted.

"I never claimed to know it," the elf said as a joke. "It was you who admitted to pity."

Gimli snorted, trying to replay the exact words in his mind as to how the elf could now claim innocence of having manipulated the dwarf into a confession of pity. It would be so easy to go along with the ploy, falling into the argument, but he would not be distracted. "I was not feeling pity before... well not wholly at least. I was contemplating how you could forgive Thranduil!"

A long moment passed before Legolas replied, and his mood drastically shifted. Somber silence fell between them. And then in a whisper he said, "I do not forgive Thranduil," The elf came to stand next to the dwarf at the hollow entrance. "Ever since learning he had given the southern part of my homeland away, I have found I have no compassion in my heart for him."

Gimli took a breath. It was hard to exhale words, fearing that they might confirm his greatest worry. "And the girl? Ethariel? What of her?"

"I have been told she died," Legolas succinctly stated.

Relief washed over Gimli. If Legolas had been told she died, he had not outwardly known in his heart. Which meant he had not bonded with the girl. Not truly.

But then he realized the meat of the elf's words. The girl had died! "I am sorry." Gimli paused, then fished, if for no other reason than to confirm what he already knew, "And you felt...nothing to that?"

"I felt sorry that it occurred! I am not gladdened by death," the elf replied curtly, then turned sorrowful blue eyes upon his friend. "If you ask if I felt her death, Gimli, I will tell you I did not."

"Then the bond...?"

"Was not real," Legolas supplied.

Gimli sighed, feeling fully his relief. The air was definitely easier to breathe.

"Orcs attacked her party as they were leaving for the havens." But the inhale he took grew difficult.

"I-I am sorry for that," Gimli stammered.

"She was broken by the bond my father put upon her. She thought it would take and that we would love." And Legolas' voice truly denoted pity for the girl.

Gimli's anger renewed. Here was another Thranduil had harmed. He could only imagine the girl's hurt. This gave him even more reason to draw back on the subject he most wanted to pursue. "And prior to that you were prepared to forgive him? Given all you have told me, I cannot imagine feeling anything but unwavering hatred toward Thranduil!"

Legolas glanced up at the sky but Gimli could tell he was not really focusing his eyes there. Quietly he spoke. "Hatred is a hard emotion to carry. It sours your belly and makes even the greatest joys dim."

"But the loss of southern Mirkwood? Your feelings have surely changed!"

"They had, and they had not. What we spoke of... my recollections divulged...they merely make me realize his sins are greater than those delivered unto me..._or_ Ethariel. I want to get past my bitterness toward him, Gimli," Legolas said rather sadly. His eyes were pleading. "I _want_ to forgive."

Gimli nodded but had no words to offer.

None were needed, for Legolas supplied the remainder of his thoughts. "It is no longer just for me to forgive him for the personal wrongs. Forgiveness must be granted for the greater crimes he has committed. I do not know them all but I think he played a part in what came about here. His name has been mentioned and I find it surprising and disturbing that I knew nothing about his role in Eregion. I said it before, and though I have nothing but circumstantial evidence to prove it, I come to believe he had had doings with the Dark Lord both in my land and in Hollin."

Gimli closed his eyes and dipped his head. He had suspected such a revelation was coming and he had no way to dispute it. Ever since being told about the episode with Legolas' mother he had thought it so too. The magic of the confections used in Legolas' seduction seemed to confirm the dwarf's suspicion. Devilry was responsible for that deed. There was no doubt.

He opened his eyes as he nodded, "Is it in you to forgive him that?"

Legolas sighed. He actually looked ill and pale and Gimli just noticed it now. "I know not. I cannot know until I uncover the full truth. In kindness I'd like to think that Thranduil, like Faeldaer here, was deceived. "

"Unfortunately there is no one living who can tell you anything of Thranduil's deeds but Thranduil."

"Mithtaur seems to think Faeldaer is still about," the elf pointed out and Gimli had trouble discerning if Legolas was serious or merely joking.

The dwarf chose to laugh. "Pardon me, elf; this Ent does have his charms, but he is also on the very far side of any reality that you and I might know."

"I know, Gimli. I do wish he knew something. I feel we have reason for being here," Legolas lamented.

"I am afraid getting truths from him would be as easy as teaching your horse to speak," the dwarf said.

"Arod does speak," the elf said, breaking into a smile that Gimli knew was aimed toward distraction.

"So says you," the dwarf replied, not being led astray. "Regardless, Greywood is a befuddled creature. Even if he knew something, I would not believe anything he says."

"And yet I follow the whim of a dream he planted in my mind." The elf held up his hand. "No, you need not say more. I agree with you. But I doubt we will have Mithtaur's help even if we sought it. He will not return to us today. He appears too caught up in his recollections to realize we are about. His song tells me so."

"Song? What song?" the dwarf asked in confusion.

"Can you not hear it? He has been singing for several hours now."

Gimli wondered at this. He had heard nothing but the creaky noise of the trees and the subtle sound of the drizzling rain. There was not even birdsong to lift the oppressive feeling of the woods. "If he has been singing I have not heard," Gimli replied.

"You need to fix your ears. I would think you have learned what Ent song is by now," Legolas remanded.

Gimli focused his ears on the world around them and came to realize that the moaning sound of the trees was really the voice of Mithtaur. Brightening at this discovery he said, "What is it he sings?"

Legolas turned his head to the forest and listened for a moment. He shook his head, "He has been at it for several hours now. Such is an Ent's way. He is singing of Celebrimbor and Narvi ... and Faeldaer and the elves. He is recounting a day in their company and telling of a nightmare dream where they did not live. I believe we are forgotten to him, Gimli, dismissed as characters within a dream. Yet it matters not; we have returned him to his home which was a deed that needed done. And we have gained access to these woods in exchange."

"Would you have us go about without his escort?" Gimli asked.

"He is harmless. We have been told this before. If he should espy us, I'm sure he would remember us and bear us no ill-will. I just believe he needs to live in his world of the past. The present here is a rather bleak place if you have not noticed," Legolas said.

"One would have to be blind."

"Metaphorically speaking, that describes Mithtaur perfectly. He is blind to the present and the truth. The melding of the past and the present are cause to his madness. He would rather reside in the past, and so long as his mind goes there, he is happy. He is happy now, and that is where we will leave him. He needs not host us for we have all that we might need."

"So we will discover what we can on our own?"

"We will manage without him. This was all I could have hoped."

"You could have hoped to meet up with elves," Gimli reminded.

"Aye. But I cannot dwell on what is not. We have this opportunity. There may yet be clues here," Legolas said.

"Where do we start?" Gimli asked.

"At Mírnen. Further up the rise," the elf said, pointing in the direction the Ent had taken the eve before.

"Dare we go in the rain?"

Legolas laughed. "This is not rain."

"It is wet and it drifts down from the sky. I call it rain," Gimli retorted, resuming their previous argument.

The elf looked to his weapons in the corner of the shelter as if contemplating the need for them, but then seemed to dismiss them, turning away. Indeed there seemed little need given that aside from the Ent there was little else alive here.

Stepping out into the drizzle Legolas began his march up the hill. But then he stopped when he realized the dwarf was watching him. Glancing over his shoulder he said, "Thank you, Gimli."

"What are you thanking me for?" the dwarf asked.

"For not pitying me," he said, smiling. And then he resumed his trek as the dwarf watched. Legolas was right; he did feel no pity. What Thranduil had done had not altered the elf he knew, and fortunately the memory resurrected did not seem to have caused any harm to his friend.

He followed the elf into the wet world, feeling, despite the weight of the air, that he could breathe again.

TBC


	22. The Storm

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part I: Into Fangorn  
Chapter Twenty-One: The Storm_

"I am sorry, Legolas."

The elf looked at the dwarf standing at his side but said nothing. Gazing back at the glassy mire, he knew why his friend had said this. His sorrow was renewed.

It was sickness and death here. Where his memory told him there had once been a gemlike vista of water and greenery, now there stood only stagnant murk. As in the rest of the surrounding forest, there was life here, but it was tentative. The trees looked sickly and barren, few holding any of their leaves. The willows at the island center were still leafy, but Legolas knew that meant nothing. In his life he had seen willows fully passed and rotting from the base outward holding still to their leaves. He knew the seeming health of those trees was a ruse. And like a wounded creature, nearly every still-living tree seemed to bristle as he and the dwarf neared. The elf was sure it was the whispered song that he sang as they passed that kept them safe.

His eyes went to the water. Even the drizzle seemed to have little effect on it. Droplets fell on the mirror surface and ended there. Very little ripple extended from where the rain touched, as if they fell onto solid surface. But the water had depth. He could see grey and yellow growth below the surface, algae and fungus-like litter living in the layers beneath. Life existed here, but it was not resplendent and glorious. Not like it once had been.

But their mission, the real meaning of Gimli's words, proved the true loss. The elves who had once lived here had done a good job of concealing themselves. Even in his dream he could not recall truly seeing their hidden homes, and so it was now. Legolas could find no signs that they had ever been in this wood, and so he wondered if it was really true that they had been. Knowing their last known existence had been about the time of Hollin's demise, he thought he might find relics, just like those he had seen when the Fellowship had journeyed in those far away lands. But there was nothing here. Nothing save the shattered stone that ripped the trees apart at the lake's center island. Golden granite lay there like scattered gravestones. He remembered this from the dream. _That was where the war machines had lobbed one of the Hollin stones,_ he thought.

But Gimli's sympathy was not the kind that would halt his efforts. The island was the place he wanted to explore. There was nothing left of any past homes in the surrounding wood and he wondered if the island held evidence where nothing else did. Yet he could find no stepping path to get across it and the way was unyielding.

They had walked all sides of the island and no route was made clear. Frustrated, Legolas considered wading the murky waters to get across, but the lake was as foreboding as the trees. He felt... not hostility... but _danger_... in the waters there. It was not like the danger in the water with the Watcher, but strange all the same. He could no more explain his feelings than he could explain his suspicions that Thranduil had a role in creating this wasteland. And just like his suspicions, he had no justifications. He did not feel life in the water, except perhaps at the most minute level. Still, it felt wrong to go there. Bodily crossing the water did not seem a safe way.

"Perhaps we should go to the cliff again," Gimli offered. "I would still put out a marker for Narvi if I might. Despite the rain --"

"-- drizzle," Legolas countered absently, still looking at the water.

"--there is work to do there and a stone I could chisel," Gimli continued.

Resigned that no path was to be availed to him to cross the lake, Legolas nodded his agreement.

"Does he still sing?" Gimli asked as they walked.

Legolas knew the question referred to Mithtaur. Aside from the drizzle, there had been no other nearby sound but that of the Ent. His ears picked out the distant tune. "He does," he answered after a minute's silent listening. He frowned. "The notes have changed though. The words speak of trouble and memory of a dark time... _War._ That is what he says."

"A bad remembrance then," Gimli said solemnly.

"Indeed," Legolas remarked looking up at the sky. The storm clouds were moving in. "The coming weather must put the thoughts there. I should wonder that every thunder clap does not remind him of those wretched days."

"If it is as you said, I would think he would dread every time that it rained."

"It is not mine to say. I just know his mood is grim. I wonder if we should we try to talk to him and quiet his nervousness?"

"I think it is as you said before. We are a dream to him. It is probably better he forgets us," Gimli replied.

"But we might be able to ease his mind by assuring him the storm is a thing of the past," Legolas answered. He really was not sure this was a right thing to do but leaving the Ent to fret did not feel right either. He added another thought, "He might tell us more of this place if we go to him now."

"I think he would be fretful company," the dwarf stated. "As I will be if that storm comes before we finish today. I suspect a chill follows those clouds, and though it would be a welcome change from this oppressive heat, I'd rather not shiver myself to sleep tonight. We should make a point of collecting firewood while we can. Should the rain come down, there will be nothing dry for us later. Not that things remain much dry in this rain..." the dwarf muttered.

"Drizzle," Legolas interjected with a smile. But his mind remained on the Ent. The song's change made him wary.

They collected pieces of dead wood as they went, arguing about the rate of saturation a piece of wood took in rain compared to drizzle and what was the correct size a piece of wood must be to retain usability in the dampness. They dropped an armload of the still somewhat dry timber in their camp before proceeding to the cliff.

"If there was a way to excavate, I would do so," Gimli said in a tone that reminded Legolas of how he had felt at Mírnen. They stood on the narrow terrace, looking on at the gravesite. The ledge was no wider than Gimli's shoulder span and narrower yet in other places. The misty rain had stopped, making the heat thick and the scent of dirt heavy in the air. Little except erosion had gainsaid the land and though the remnants of vine-choking vegetation were apparent on the steep walls, nothing substantial had grown there for some time.

Legolas found it interesting how history's war weapons had made their mark on the land. Shards of golden stone, both large and small, could be picked out among the dead plants. Remembering the dream, Legolas could imagine the rock's trajectory causing it to crush the wall above the entrance and then burying the path in the shattered remnants. Stone had fallen to the river beneath, and a littered trail of yellow rock marked the cliff like a smeared wound.

The stout figure kneeled where he stood. His eyes did not leave the rubble and thinking the dwarf was praying, Legolas too bowed his head.

But then the elf realized the mutterings were not pleas to Aule to guard the lost souls but something else. They were calculations about projections and weights.

The dwarf then came to stand, and Legolas watched as he stepped onto the barely conceivable ledge. Gimli's innate balance and great strength became visible then. The dwarf bent and lifted a stone the size of his torso from the ground and tossed it over the embankment in one smooth movement. It cascaded down the wall, knocking debris loose as it fell to the river many dozens of yards below.

"Do you think to dig? The entrance is hopelessly ruined, dwarf," Legolas said, uncertain why Gimli would be lifting and hauling stone otherwise. "Surely the hole collapsed when the machine lobbed the stone here."

"No doubt," the dwarf replied, "But dig is what I do."

"You cannot believe..." But then the elf halted, shrugging. He knew Gimli and how his mind could be set. He would not argue. He glanced at the stone Gimli had set aside for carving and wondered why he did not work there. But then he conceded the dwarf had an alternative plan and he chose not to question it. "I will help you," Legolas offered as he stepped onto the rocky ledge next to the dwarf. He bent down and picked up a stone of equal size to Gimli's. As he did, other rocks about it also broke away and began to fall. A rumble echoed from the clouds above as Legolas stumbled back. He teetered at the ledge in his surprise. The dwarf grabbed him, but the rock he had lifted was sacrificed for sake of his balance. It barreled down the wall, crashing noisily into the river, taking dirt and part of the ledge with it as it fell. The sound of thunder echoed after it.

"You will halt!" Gimli cried as he centered Legolas back into a standing position. "There is a method to which I take these stones. The wrong rock moved could cause a landslide and I do not mean for that to happen!"

Legolas stood in stunned silence realizing that was what the dwarf had been calculating. Humbly he conceded, "Tell me which to lift then."

The dwarf nodded and Legolas did not need to hear Gimli say it to know his friend was the superior in this. Instead he simply pointed, "There," indicating a slightly smaller rock that lay cockeyed over a large boulder.

The storm held off for a good few hours still. Yet even though the drizzle stopped, they were wet with sweat, Legolas looked up to the sky. It grew progressively darker as the hours passed. Flashes of lightning and its ensuing thunder drew nearer and quicker and Legolas worried about their place on that wall. Should the storm break, they were standing victims to a lightning strike. They had moved enough rocks that a new path had been formed.

"That will do," Gimli proclaimed and Legolas sighed in relief. "We cannot stay out here any longer."

"And what is it we have done?"

"Here," Gimli pointed out and Legolas could see a small opening had been made. It was not much but there was enough to see that a narrow tube was now made where none had been before.

"Is it...?" the elf began, but did not complete the words. A rumble of thunder interrupted him.

The dwarf spoke over the slow boom. "I thought it might be so. When I saw how the stone fell I realized just the entrance was crushed. I do not know the make of the cave beneath, but if it is built within walls of granite, I doubt it would have collapsed inward. The way into the cave has not been completely lost."

Legolas could feel the smile riding over his face. "You have done it, Gimli," the elf exclaimed.

"Not necessarily. It is merely a vent opening."

"It is a way to go through though."

"If what I suspect is true, then yes."

"What do you suspect?" Legolas felt the edges of excitement lace his query. A thought was coming to his mind though he couldn't quite find words to it.

"If the walls held, this resting place was made an airless tomb."

"Are you saying their death came through suffocation?" Legolas asked, not sure if he had thought through the horrors of those who died.

"I cannot know until I enter, but if we are to be here, I feel I should make the attempt." The dwarf paused, and then he was truly reverential. "Narvi's bones should be set right."

Legolas dipped his head. Yes, such respect needed to be paid if it were possible.

"Is it the same with elves?" Gimli asked, looking up at Legolas for the first time since starting the task, and Legolas had to think for a moment on what the dwarf was asking him.

"You mean the bodies? Elf bodies do not remain," Legolas answered. "They become of the earth."

"So even here there would be no evidence," Gimli shrugged and sighed. "I had hoped to be of aid."

But Legolas' eyes brightened as he realized his friend's efforts. "The bodies will be gone, and the bones likely faded as well, but their clothing may still exist. Artifacts might be there as well!" He nearly leapt in joy. "Gimli, you are brilliant!"

His enthusiasm was then renewed. If they couldn't reach Mírnen, they could try for the cave. Proof that elves had existed was the first step to learning the truth of his father. He wanted to keep digging. He wanted to know for sure. "But we must go on," he urged, reaching for another stone that he might pull away from the entrance.

"Not now. Be patient, elf. More will come tomorrow. The weather does not cooperate. A storm comes now."

Frustrated, Legolas sighed and looked again to the sky. His friend was right. "We had better remove ourselves then. The clouds rumble to themselves but their current grows close. Lightning is bound to strike ground soon." He had been watching the approaching weather. Over the hours he had worried about what it would unleash.

But now, thinking outwardly. his attention was turned elsewhere. He worried for Mithtaur again. The Ent's song had grown more and more grim in the last hour.

He turned his head upward, feeling the air. It was still. The atmosphere seemed heavy and thick; its color was a threatening shade of darkness. His innate senses shouted warning. "We should collect more wood. It will be a rough night," he added in muttered warning. He knew he need not even say this. Gimli could feel it too.

The dwarf nodded his agreement. He was already stepping away from the ledge and was moving back to their camp. A streak of lightning crossed the sky and the boom of thunder, louder than any they had already heard, was seconds behind.

And then Legolas noticed another sound. He turned his head in the direction of Mírnen. With the blast, the Ent's song had halted. A panicky wail heavily hung on the air. "Mithtaur," he gasped. His heart felt deep sympathy for the creature's fears. _He relives his nightmares_, he thought, knowing exactly what it felt to experience a known terror again and again.

He glanced at the dwarf who seemed not to notice the shift in sound. "Gimli, you said you do not think our presence will help him, but something is wrong with Mithtaur. We must see to him."

Concern crossed the dwarf's brow. "But the storm comes," he reminded. The wind was beginning to blow and an electric scent wafted on the air. There was a chill that flitted on the edge of the heat.

"I will go then," Legolas offered, already stepping toward the path.

"No. It is not safe," Gimli warned. "Let him be."

"He is distressed. I shall not be long," the elf replied, not offering Gimli a chance to argue. He jogged toward the trail to Mírnen. Time was an issue. At his feet small eddies of leaves started to lift and spiral. The storm was pressing and he feared what the Ent's madness might manifest to when it came.

Mithtaur's earlier song spoke of fear. Terror, really. He could hear Gimli yelling to him as he fled, but he did not stop to address the dwarf. The wind whipped around him and another boom of thunder rumbled as darkness fell on the land. The urgency of the storm would keep the dwarf from following.

The elf bounded the path, noticing the already increasing flow from the running creek, created just from the light drizzle, that ran alongside the road. It terraced down many levels into the river. Despite the gusting wind he could hear the Ent's voice rising above and his concerns were confirmed. Mithtaur cried.

He reached the lake and was surprised to discover that the sound came from the center island. How Mithtaur had arrived there he could not guess.

But what startled him more was that the wailing sound was replaced with words. They confirmed his suspicions. "He comes! Sauron, the Deceiver comes!" the Ent wailed.

"Mithtaur?" Legolas called. "Can you hear me?"

But Mithtaur's plaintive cry went on. "He destroys! He kills! He means to see us dead!"

Legolas sought out the voice. It was as dark as the sky. He could make out the Ent's form on the other side of the water, the figure swaying in the wind behind the veil of leaves that remained on the willows. "Mithtaur, it is a memory of a time of old that haunts you. He is gone! Sauron is gone!" the elf cried.

Then in the twilight darkness and the air blowing whirlwinds of doom, his eyes spied something he had not seen before. The wind blowing over the water created a current on its still surface. And as it did, a ridge beneath the surface was revealed. He saw the path it took directly across the lake. It was a bridge. Looking down into the water, he could barely make out the road. Carefully disguised, the stone of the hidden bridge melded almost imperceptibly with the basin floor. Yet there it was, the way across. He need not step any deeper than the soles of his boots.

He stepped to the water's edge, A great wind blew his hair back and his face was pressed by the gale. But he could see. This was the safe way he had sought. This knowledge was critical. He could cross here.

But his heart called out warning. Danger from the storm was nigh and he knew it would be better to cross when the weather was past. Yet the Ent wailed and his heart lurched in pity. Legolas shored his resolve.

"Mithtaur!" he called as he stepped into the water.

The island willows went wild. Their bases lifted and shook as if the earth tumbled them and their branches moved wildly. His eyes widened. It was not the pending storm that caused their motion.

Mithtaur's voice carried above them, shouting in rage. His arms were raised and he charged forward. "Intruder! Beast! You will not be allowed here!"

And then Legolas' wariness suddenly became clear. Mithtaur thought _he_ was Sauron. "I am not _him_," he gasped, backing away. It never dawned on him that Mithtaur would not be able to sense his fairness.

The ancient Ent burst through the trees on the island and stormed out onto the invisible bridge. He looked like he walked on water. "You are not welcome here!"

Legolas backed away. "Nay, Mithtaur! You know me! I am your friend!" Yet his words were fruitless.

"Shapeshifter! Monster!" the Ent screamed as he halved the wide distance between them in a few steps.

He had to flee! The Ent meant to strike him! "Mithtaur, no!"

He ran. This small lake now seemed huge as he tried to get back to the path. Fleetingly he thought to lead the Ent astray, but he worried that the creature would choose another path, seeking out Gimli at their bunker instead. Nay, he had to go immediately there! Together they had to hide!

But he was followed! The swift pursuit was wild, made hard as the wind both pressed into him then pushed away. He felt leaden and light simultaneously. And most frightfully, he knew he was not outrunning the Ent. He could hear the crushing sound of the creature's great steps behind him.

He reached the crest of the path when sudden lightning dropped from the sky. Wind whistled past his ears, and the cold splatter of rain whipped his skin. The deluge was sudden. He could feel the air change. He could smell it. He felt --

"No!" He leapt, knowing suddenly the electric current.

White light blasted and Legolas was thrown forward. Lightning. Something had been struck!

"Mithtaur!" he screamed. His voice sounded tinny. A ringing filled his ears. He turned. Rain pelted him. He could see the Ent fleeing. The creature turned in the other direction and was headed toward the lake again. _Safe! _he sighed,_ And Mithtaur is not hurt!_

But now there was the storm to escape. He was drenched. Each drop felt like a slap, soaking his clothes through. He tried to rise but his feet slipped beneath him and he tumbled, He slid into the mud, thrown off balance by the continuous wind. He tripped as he rose, but he regained his feet and ran forward. He wore mud. Leaf debris whipped into his eyes, blinding him as he blinked his sight back. Another crash of thunder boomed. The weather was violent, as horrible as he thought it might be. He must hurry back to Gimli.

But he stood suddenly still.

Beyond the storm he could hear it.

The Ent was returning. Mithtaur was coming for him again.

He did not look where he ran. He was nearly blind. Suddenly he was with Gimli, the dwarf stepping out of their barrow. He nearly collided with his friend. His hair stuck to his cheeks and his face. Grabbing the dwarf's shoulders, he cried, "We must run! We must flee, Gimli!"

The dwarf's expression was quizzical. "What happened? I heard a thunder blast--"

The elf was shaking his head. Rain fell into his eyes. There was no time for an explanation. Stinging rain pounded his flesh. Rocklike hail mixed with the deluge. He grabbed the dwarf's arm, causing Gimli to nearly tumble. "Hurry! Now!"

Hooking a hand beneath the dwarf's arm, he was dragging his friend away. There was only one place he could think to make their escape where neither the Ent nor the trees could reach them. They would be exposed to the elements, but that was the least of their problems.

But the dwarf pulled away. He was running back to the hollow beneath the dead tree. He was shouting something.

"No, not there!" Legolas cried, speeding his steps to intercept the dwarf. He feared his voice was masked by the storm but he called his concern anyway. "He will collapse the hole and crush us into the roots of the tree!"

He reached the dwarf, pulling him to a stop. Gimli was without his helm. He looked smaller in his drenched state, but his temper was not slight. "I need my weapons!" he shouted, raising a hand to shield his head from the hail.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas could see Mithtaur coming. He could make out the roar of the creature. So close! He dared not glance behind. Instead he pushed Gimli toward the cliff. And that was when the dwarf saw the danger. Escape was on the other side of the road, and the dwarf did not thwart him this time. They ran.

The world was black by then. Even the lightning did not cut entirely through the darkness and the rain and wind made them blind. Yet Legolas' keen eyes made out the ledge. They were upon it and the elf felt safe passage might be theirs if only they could get enough distance between themselves and the Ent.

Unfortunately, for all their efforts, the ledge was not the safe place he thought it might be. Legolas turned. The monster was only meters away. He backed away. The Ent could not follow.

Mithtaur did not let the narrow road deter him. "Monster! Fell beast! You tried to fool us! You pretended to be our friend. I will notnotnot allow it. I will stop you!" He was reaching out long arms, trying to extend his branches in his reach.

Gimli pulled Legolas away. He dragged the elf to the wall climbing over the rocks and hollow they had earlier created. "Follow me," he cried. Legolas almost did not hear him for the wind. It was hard to maintain a footed hold in this weather. The dwarf was his tether. Gimli was leading him over the rubble. They were going off the path, climbing. "He cannot reach us if we go up!"

Mithtaur placed one foot onto the path, turning his body so he might pursue. But he was large. He could not move sideways. The moment was to their advantage. _We will go up_, Legolas thought. _We will be beyond him._

But the rain, the weight of the creature, and Mithtaur's precarious steps had effect. They climbed and the Ent thrashed. Then the ledge gave way beneath the Ent, and his footing was lost. But it was not his demise alone. The earth moved. It slipped away. Rocks tumbled. The wall tumbled. There was nothing to hold to!

Legolas was suddenly drowning in mud! The ledge was gone! There was no ground! Down! They were falling. Down...

Darkness...

Mud...

Tumbling pain...

Water! The river...

Gimli!

And then...

He could feel someone moving him.

_Pain!_

A barb! Sharp agony!

"You are hurt," someone said.

Hurt. Yes. Where?

He scanned his body. The ache was all over and it dulled him. He tried to pinpoint it. Where did it come from?

Movement again.

His leg! Jolting alert! Ai, it hurt! There! It was there that the pain began.

How long had he been like this? It seemed he had lived a dazed existence for longer than he could realize. Had he been replaying the tale in his mind? And the pain had accompanied it all this time.

Pain. He lived in the constancy of it.

"No!" he sobbed. He was a menacing foe on better days, but his skills were waylaid in this state. He was in the hands of his friend. He would not fight Gimli, but oh, it hurt so! He begged for a quick end, "Gimli, please... stop..."

Everything felt broken.

"Gimli..."

His leg. All he could think was to make the agony stop there. His hand brushed the spike that jutted from it. He hissed with the agony. It was like a knife. A hand brushed his fingers aside. Weakly he fought.

"No..." But he was too ill to really put up much objection. The spike had to be removed. It was necessary, he knew, but his need to escape the pain had a power above reasonable thought.

And then the knife was twisted in the wound.

_Pain!!!_

He tried not to scream, biting the hurt back to a deep moan. Was it worse when the lance came out or went in? Prodding fingers mauled the wound, squeezing the ripped flesh together so as to stitch it. He wanted to cry.

A blurred shadow hovered over him. It was all he could see through the blur of tears. "I am sorry for that," said the voice. This was not Gimli. That surprised Legolas though something told him it should not. He tried to see the speaker but his head was spinning and he could make sense of nothing. He felt he would be sick. Slowly the agony receded to just a wretched ache. But by then all vision was lost to him and he was too exhausted to do anything but gasp for breath. Sweat and chill weakened him. A tear rolled down his cheek falling into his mud-crusted hair.

Voices spoke, but all he could put sense to was the voice of his caregiver. "Mithtaur did this," the speaker said as if answering the question of another. More voices, and then, "It is my fault. I should not have let him go." A pause came then, and then a hand brushed the skin of Legolas' cheek. "He does not bleed too badly. Still..." The hand was withdrawn and the other seemed to step away. His voice was lowered as if he were trying to keep from alarming anyone near. But Legolas could still hear him. "The wound could be dangerous. Do you see the scar? Had the lance struck him there..." More words, and words, and then, "There is a head wound to think about as well ... other breaks... I fear the damage to the leg most... splinters left in the wound..."

Splinters. Wood. Mithtaur's lashing hand. The barb. It had been no knife. He remembered the Ent throwing him. He had been dazed and had felt broken when the creature had turned his last remnants of anger upon the elf. The stab wound had been delivered by means of a spiky shard. A lancing branch had struck him, piercing him through the left thigh. How ironic that the wound was near the one his father had delivered to him when he had tried to keep Legolas from leaving.

The attack became clearer, mixed with the blows of his father. A bellowing voice howled at him, accusing him of betrayal and menace.

"Gimli," he moaned, but the vision of the dwarf being bowled under the stone they had cleared for Narvi flashed through his mind.

He could not find Gimli. Now he remembered. They were buried beneath the deluge of mud and rain. He could not see. He sobbed in despair. He needed his friend.

"Gimli..."

"What is that you say?" the voice asked.

No not Gimli. He was not there.

"My friend..." Legolas whispered. "Help me..."

A rumble of voices. He could make no sense of them. All he could think of was the battle and the last time he had seen his friend.

Mithtaur had followed. He should not have. There had been no room on the ledge for him.

"We will try to find him," the voice promised.

He saw the dwarf floating away in the torrential current. He felt wretched despair mixed with pain. Ai! Valar, please tell him the dwarf was not dead!

"Drink this. It will help." A cup was put to his lips. He did not fight. The pain drifted away.

The Ent had been a terrible force. His hand had sliced across the water surface, slamming into the elf, throwing him away from the dwarf and into darkness. "Why?" he gasped. Why had this happened?

"Is it true?" the voice asked, wiping sweat from his brow. He struggled to put meaning to the words. Time had passed. He could sense that though he did not know its true length.

Confusion marred his brow.

"Wha --?"

He did not know what the query meant. Everything hurt.

"Nay, you need not answer. You have his features. Oropher is in your eyes, and Thranduil is in the shape of your face. You are his son. Aye, I know you, In fact, I would know you even had you not called out his name."

His name? Whose name? Thranduil's? When had he called out Thranduil's name?

And then he recalled a dream that put him in Hollin. The Mirkwood king had appeared little more than a youth there. When had that been? Recently? Just now?

"When I learned there was an elf in our forest, I asked Mithtaur to bring you here. At that time I was really not aware that you were the son of my old friend."

Distantly he recalled something that had been important to him once. Proof. Proof of other elves had been what he had sought, and here it was. "You are... ?" He felt so heavy and tired. Too heavy. "... elf?" He had no strength. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

A gentle chuckle rolled past his ears. "You sought me out. You thought that I had expired, that all of us had expired. Not true."

He could feel the figure kneel so as to be level with his gaze. Warm breath brushed his ear as the voice whispered, "You asked for me. I am here."

More of the drink was plied upon him and he sputtered. "No... who...?"

"Look at me."

A hand turned his head and all he need do was open his eyes. He forced the lids open. His vision was blurred. He attempted to focus.

He saw golden colored eyes. He remembered them from the dream. Recollection was suddenly crisp. "Faeldaer?" he whispered.

"Yes. Yes, I am Faeldaer," the voice said and the eyes smiled.

He had no more strength. Shadows filled his vision and he felt his body grow light and heavy simultaneously. Hot and cold. Rising and falling.

"You need sleep now. I will answer all of your questions later."

A hand stroked his head. He was so tired. He had to sleep. The pain was gone, or at least it was gone from his outward thoughts. He could feel his mind drifting away. Pillowy comfort lay just on the other side of dreams.

But a part of him clung to what was real. It was Faeldaer who spoke to him. _Faeldaer_. Could it be true? There were many questions he should be asking. Questions about his father. There was a mystery he had been trying to resolve. What was it he wanted to know? He couldn't remember. It all seemed so trivial now though he knew it had once been tremendously important to him.

Hands touched him. Touched him, and he suddenly revolted. Flashes of memory triggered past horror. Sexual pleasures. Betrayal and violation. He pushed against them, violent to the ache in his heart. "No!"

"Peace." _Hush, young one. No one will hurt you that way here. _Words resonated in his soul, and his body was instantly stilled. He realized the hands were no longer there. Only his heart raced. "Peace. Peace. Peace." Sudden calm fell over him, The pains were again gone and the thrumming of his heart softened.

And with that he found he could hold on no more. His aches gave way to stillness and his mind finally let go of all realities. Even the distant worry of crashing waves faded into the sobering absence his dreams promised.

He did not resist then when his head was lifted and cool liquid was poured again into his throat. A void greeted him, and he knew to slip there was to either accept his own mending or his own death, though truly he was without choice in the matter. He had no more rule of his body or his life and blackness descended upon him. He was lost only to his dreams, and he accepted them.

**End of Part I.  
To be continued.**


	23. The Matter of Dreams

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Two: The __Matter of Dreams_

He held her in his arms in the dance. Her waist was so small in his hands, and he felt she was precious, breakable, like a delicate piece of glass. But he cherished this grace about her. She was beautiful and elegant; he adored the perfection of her as she smiled at him. Her love for him could be felt to the depths of his soul, and he was happy. Everything about her was a treasure to him. In his soul he knew he was the same to her. Where she was slight, he was powerful. Together, they were the completion of each other.

Her golden hair was done up in waves that spiraled down from the crown of her head, forming into ringlets that framed the fine shape of her head. Ivory skin, lightly flushed, enhanced the rose-color of her blossom smile and created fine lines around her emerald eyes. She was his wife, his love, and he rejoiced at the bounty of feelings that came to him in her presence. He felt drunk with happiness.

And yet he knew this was just a dream.

Taking steps in the dance, shifting his grip and turning her in a new direction as they moved, he knew he was reliving a moment from the past. In his heart, he hurt. But at the same time, he enjoyed holding her, even if it was reality no more. He felt Passion fortified in this recollection, and he knew he must refrain from the emotions lest he fall too hard into mourning upon awakening.

"He was dear to you," she whispered as they moved through the dance. It was a remnant of the conversation they had had back then in those days, and he recognized at once the topic of their speech. It strengthened his resolve to curb his mood.

"Though passed, he still is. He was an outcast to others, but he did nothing to dissuade my heart. He was -- _is_ -- indeed dear to me," he replied with a candor that touched the true depth of his feelings. He could remember these feelings, and in some ways they still held true.

He could feel her compassion in her reply. Truly did she love him. "Then he is dear to me as well," she said, allowing him to spin her in the dance. Testimony to her faith, she never cast doubt upon his beliefs. "Let what is sent pass. I will not bar you from accepting them."

Smiling broadly, he reminded her, "The gifts come for you too."

Grinning back, she laughed, "All the more reason to accept them."

He had been so happy. Ah, his Laerniel! How he missed her.

And yet, the person they spoke of was a part of this too and he knew dwelling overly long in this moment would stir him into painful realms of heartbreak and betrayal. Instead he allowed the dream to shift. A memory of another conversation fell into place and he was no longer with her but _him_.

"What do you mean it is not the same?" he asked. "Do you not relive moments of your past?" He again remembered the conversation verbatim and marveled at how the theme now fit into his sleeping world. The mind truly was mysterious, tying the recollection of the man in his prior dream into his thoughts about _dreams_. For that was the topic of this conversation: dreaming. He could recall his feelings then. Curiosity. He wanted to know how dreams were with mortal-kind. Who better to ask?

The questioned mortal's brow furrowed as he considered his reply. His hair was somewhat tousled and unkempt, and the elf detected the slightest hint of a slur in his speech as he answered. "Yes, the past is relived ... somewhat," the man answered. The words were drawled out, as if weighed, even when they were spoken. His friend continued. "But the moments change, as if they are remolded to meet the requirements of a fantasy rather than reality. Do your dreams not shift while you live them? Must the past be exact?"

Thranduil tucked his chin, gazing under his brow before taking another sip of his wine. He felt confused by the question. "What other way is there? The past is what it is. Why should it be altered? And by that means what is it you speak of when you talk of 'fantasy'?"

The man laughed, pushing back in his seat as he kicked his heels up to the table. His brow shot up. "That is a weighted question if ever I have heard one. Surely you know of _fantasies_, Thranduil?" The elf chastly blushed under the potential interpretation of his words. At the same time, and to his relief, the man had no intention of lingering over the elf's humiliation. Perhaps it was because he had been so young then. "You ask me what it is to dream as a mortal and I will tell you: it is like living in a world constructed only of your imagination. Nothing is real there, even the moments that are based on reality are somehow changed." He picked up his cup and studied the bowl before raising it to his friend. "It is like being in a state of drunkenness. Everything is amplified and transmuted. Things that are normally easy become difficult while things that are typically the alternate become... the alternate." He laughed at his own joke and then he took a deep draw of the contents before returning the cup to the table before him with a heaviness that forced the wine within to spill over the bowl.

The man smiled at his own clumsiness. "Like that," he said, pointing to the cup, and Thranduil laughed as well. His friend was most definitely drunk. If anyone could speak on the subject, it was he.

And yet he had to ask, "So you now tell me mortal dreams are like being merry with drink."

"Not just _merry_," the man said, leaning in to his friend. Thranduil could smell the wine on his breath. "Inebriated. Sated. Clumsy and full of all the good feelings that come from a night of taverning... only _without_ the effects in the morn." He winked. "Aye, but to dream is a wondrous thing, Thranduil. Do you understand me now?"

"Alas, my friend, I do not," Thranduil shook his head but he didn't feel humbled in revealing this fact. "You tell me something I again cannot imagine for I have never been so sated as you describe."

The man's brows shot high as he looked upon his friend with startled surprise. "Even now?" And then as if assessing the elf to confirm this fact he continued. "Never drunk!" he affirmed, swaying in his seat. "But you have matched me cup for cup. Surely you feel something?"

If this were a moment for taking lessons, the Numenorean's display would have served as adequate reason for Thranduil not to partake in drunkenness. Yet the elf was impressionable in these days, and he recalled how easily swayed he was by those he admired and, yes, loved, even when their displays were not so becoming. His friend was man of great bearing in these days, and the elf was eager to look past how foolish the mortal appeared at that given moment.

Indeed, golden hair that was normally finely combed was now unkempt; flawless skin, in this state, carried the dull sheen of sweat; high-risen cheeks blushed with a heat that was inward, not external; and of course, typically clear eyes now appeared glazed and shot in red.

This was not as his friend typically presented himself. He was a man of impeccable appearance and demeanor, and his drunkenness was the antithesis of his usual behavior. But Thranduil did not see it that way. He was honored, this man, this _friend, _felt comfortable enough to fall into such a state before him. It proved they were no longer just associates through the courts. He was flattered someone with such clout deemed to befriend him.

"I have never had occasion to drink to excess," Thranduil answered with a shrug, knowing he felt somewhat merry in his current state, but not in the full press of slurring, stumbling drunkenness like the man. "I have never had desire to experience the effects beyond what I might normally know."

The man's grin was wild then, almost dangerous with amusement as he proclaimed with mock-sadness, "Then you have never dreamed. No, nor will you know what it is like to dream!"

Thranduil replied with a grin that implied his own version of mockery. "My tolerance is not that of a Man; and it is certainly far beyond that of one like you."

It was an insult, but a friendly one, and he was pleased when his friend belted out an uproarious laugh, no slight taken at all. He clapped a hand to the elf's shoulder. "Nonsense! You are as capable of being drunk as any of the rest of us." It was a silly proclamation, but Thranduil read the lining of challenge there and was glad for it. It was the fostering of closeness he had been hoping for.

He smiled in his reply, "Do not be so sure of it. I have a high tolerance, even among elves." It was a brag, but one aimed to spur the friendship on.

The man placed a hand to his chest. "My dear friend," he drawled. "But you must know this sensation, if even only once. Please, let me be the first to introduce you to the more hedonistic pleasures of life! Gods know you have been kept from them long enough!" He raised his glass to the keeper at the bar and indicated the need for another round of their beverage. "Consider it my gift to you," he said, winking at the elf, then added, "so that you might learn what it is to feel the effects of dream..."

"And you think that will make me a better elf?" Thranduil urged in this wordplay.

"Nay," Annatar laughed. "I think it will make you the better _Man_."

With the recognition that came with his abilities as an elf, Thranduil knew the moment before him was a dream. However, what Annatar described -- so named Sauron -- had never come to be. Thranduil had never known sleep to be like a drunken encounter though he had eventually learned what that other sensation was like -- nor did his elven dreams ever take on any form other than that of reliving moments of his past. Sauron -- if indeed Annatar had been Sauron -- had been wrong. It was a small regard, but one nevertheless that Thranduil clung to. How could a Maia be wrong?

Nay, Thranduil had never learned what it was for his thoughts to meander on imaginary trails of fantasy. His dreams were as all elves dreamed; remembrances constructed from chains of his thoughts. They were not altered by time or the fogginess of sleep. They were as real to him now as they had been then. And though he had been curious once, he was happy with what he had now. He wanted dreams to be exact. He clung to the happiness within them as a refuge from the pain of his outward heart.

And in many ways, that compelled his Passion to be what it must.

"My Lord..."

Thranduil started, bolting upright. Although he was keenly aware that he had fallen into reverie, he did not like to be caught off guard. He was usually much more aware of the goings on around him; it was clear that his fatigue was getting the better of him. But then he realized he was yet alone. The shadow on the other side of the tent wall indicated as much.

Shaken and flushed by what could have been embarrassment, he took a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves. "Enter," he said, standing and blinking the sleep from his eyes. His father had once told him that a leader did not show weakness, even the necessary weakness of sleep.

"My Lord," the guardsman repeated as he pushed his way into the king's amply appointed tent. "A messenger has arrived from Loríen Realm. He bids your attention."

Confusion furrowed Thranduil's brow. "Who sends him forth?" The elven king knew Celeborn and Galadriel were gone attending the wedding of their grandchild.

"The seal reads the mark of Haldir of Loríen," Inirion, the guard, replied.

"_Haldir?"_ Thranduil questioned, the word slipping past his lips before he could stop the thought. "The marchwarden?" He directed his eyes down, biting back the bit of disdain that threatened to creep into his voice. It truly was not his nature to either regard or disregard others by rank. But sometimes, sometimes, he could not help the runaway quality of his feelings. For too long it had been his trait -- his but not his. He was better now, now that he felt the presence of Sauron gone from this world, but still he felt the influence of darkness acting upon his thoughts and words from time to time.

"He has the authority to petition," Inirion offered. Thranduil nodded in approval of the guard's manners. Shifting slightly, the soldier added in a voice of respectable candor, "It sounded of import, my Lord. When questioned, the messenger said your son's name was a part of what he must relay."

"Legolas?" the king asked, finding his tone riding up a note in his surprise.

"Yes, sire," the guardsman confirmed.

Thranduil took a step back, pivoting away. It had been nearly a year. Out of respect he suspected, no one made mention of his son. And he had kept up his part of the charade by doing the same. But despite the cold surface of his demeanor, he felt great anguish for the flight of his son from the forest. Everything in the last year had been a direct result of his son's departure, including his presence in this current place. The hard thrum in his chest began again.

He could not let his hurt show. In the back of his mind, old suspicions reigned. He had to guard himself and that of his son. Knowledge of anything of his strained relationship could be used against him. This was another long lesson learned from ages past. It would not do to show how deeply just a spoken word affected him. He swallowed his breath to contain the rasp that threatened to spill from his lips. If he showed how greatly just the utterance of his son's name played upon him, what might his naysayers, or worse, his enemies, do with that information? It was an old habit, but he would not break it now. The war was over, but the need for discretion remained.

"Allow him entrance," he said in answer to the guard after a moment, gaining control of himself again.

He did not need to see it to know the servant bowed and backed out of the tent. Such was how his attendants were taught. It seemed proper this way and he smiled. Another lesson. Not all protocols were so wrong.

But then he glanced down at his hands. Fire blazed in his thoughts and he could feel one side of him weighted with the heaviness of his concern. _Peace_, he thought, closing his eyes to his and breathing deeply in order to quell his heart.

"My Lord," a voice said from behind him and he felt his agitation suddenly flare. The messenger was within his tent! _Does he not even pause at the door? _And instantly he knew he was wrong to think this. He had made the invitation. Without turning, he stepped to his table and poured a drink from the decanter. Anything to help...

Closing his eyes, he swallowed and let the wine work its heat into his throat. When he felt he had calm of voice he turned to face the Loríen messenger. "What do you bring me?" he asked, his voice sounding strong just as he willed it to be.

The courier handed over the sealed missive from his messenger case. Thranduil glanced at the seal before breaking it. _Haldir does not camouflage his status by using a seal above him. A lesser elf might have put on pretense of writing in _her_ name, _he thought approvingly.

_No! _he corrected himself, his hand shaking as he held the note._ There is no room for this! I must rid myself of pettiness! _

He twisted at his fingers, loosing the jewels that he wore there, pocketing them as he felt his true smallness take over him. He would have to work to keep his insecurities hidden.

Camouflaging his emotions, he broke the seal and delved into what was contained there.

His eyes skimmed the note. He gazed at the messenger. He almost asked the question that rose to his lips, but then reconsidered the words, catching the thoughts before they escaped and how they might be received. _Naugrim_ was distasteful to say, and the Lady had done much to persuade her followers not to demean with such crudeness. It was her measure of propriety, and Thranduil could respect that. Instead he corrected his speech. "A dwarf?" he asked, pointing to the note.

"Aye, my Lord," the elf answered without elaboration. His eyes had yet to wander the tent, and Thranduil was satisfied that the messenger had been properly schooled.

"How did you find him?" the king asked.

"He was carried on the back of a Rohan steed. The animal was branded with a Westfold mark. Such is a curiosity to us," the messenger replied, still speaking from an alert stance.

"Indeed," Thranduil said. "Dwarves do not normally commune with beasts."

"This dwarf was and is quite ill, my Lord. The healers fear he may not survive," the messenger replied.

"And even more curious is that in his injured state, he found way to the Golden Wood," Thranduil said with considered thought.

"He is known to us though we did not recognize him at first," the visitor explained.

"Nay, you need not say more. I had heard your Lady allowed a dwarf entrance to the wood when the Walkers came."

"Aye, my lord. He is a _friend_ to our queen," the messenger replied with a slight hint of disdain, not really defending so much as relaying that fact.

_I suppose I could have used the word 'naugrim' wi__th this one after all,_ Thranduil thought with slight amusement. Even if his thoughts were sometimes wrong, at least he was not solely kept to his prejudices.

But then... the messenger's eyes glanced briefly his way as if to witness any change in Thranduil's expression as he said, "Your son was a friend to her as well."

_WAS a friend?_ He hated that he thought it but he could not keep the ire from surging in his breast. Even without his fortitude he was feeling this. In this weaker state, he knew he was right to feel he was being tested. By a messenger, no less! "Speak of my son in the present tense!" he admonished, doing as a king does when he must make a lesser subject realize their folly. "To my knowledge he has not been obliterated from the Lady's affections nor is there reason to believe he no longer walks the forests of Arda!"

But then he realized he had set forth a question of his own. He feared what might be said in answer. "Or is it perhaps that you come here to tell me something more dire than word of this dwarf?" he asked with dread lying beneath his words.

"No, my Lord. No I do not," the messenger answered in a quaking voice and resuming his stance with eyes forward and unwavering. "Forgive my poorly spoken words. I bear only the news in the missive and nothing else."

Thranduil was slightly appeased, and feeling gracious for his ability to command in so much a lesser position, he resumed their earlier conversation. "I do wonder at the dwarf coming to the Golden Wood though, but not for the reasons you think," Thranduil said. He was capable of showing some grace when he needed to. He could turn his emotions and this messenger really did not deserve his admonishments. He went on in his comments. "It means this dwarf -- Gimli?" he gazed at the note, "-- must have been near enough when injured to know to travel to Lorien."

"Yes, my lord. We had wondered at that too."

Thranduil studied the note again. "This says he was unconscious when he was found. Has that status changed enough for your people to question him?"

"It has not. He remains as he has, only waking enough to utter the name of your son."

"And have parties been sent out to follow his trail and root out its source?" the king asked, protocols filling his mind, though fear rattled the cage of his resolve.

"They have, my lord, though I left before any news came of it."

Thranduil turned away, thinking then what must be done. He knew the question at hand. Would he attend to this dwarf?

"It may well mean nothing," he outwardly rationalized, trying to sound unmoved despite the fear beating in his heart. He wanted to go but he could not appear rash and emotional in his reasoning. After all, there was no real evidence to conclude that Legolas too was in danger.

The messenger did not reply and Thranduil went on in his thoughts, justifying himself.

_Just because this dwarf had__ once been in the company of my son does not mean my son was companion to him in_ this _journey. Legolas may be quite fine_, he thought, wanting to believe it.

_Yet he calls out for Legolas, and that I cannot ignore. It could well be that the dwarf merely suffers fever __dreams from the time of the War; it is not so long past. But it might also be he and Legolas were together when he was injured. I know my son survived the War; and I know he was traveling home. Message came to me of this. Further, his return is past due. Still, I know I should not worry for him. He is quite capable._

He paused, speaking aloud. "It is hard to break away. There were promises made."

He turned on his heel, thinking. Almost apologetically he said, "Had I another member of family I would send them in my stead. Yet there are none. Would Celeborn forgive me if broke away to attend to my own? I would think it so since it is Lothlorien that calls me forth."

Thranduil thought for a moment before deciding what he must do. "Tell your marchwarden I will be there on the day after next," the king said. "Tell him to keep the dwarf alive. I would like to question him if I may."

He thought he saw a slight change in the expression of the messenger, one of disapproval, but he dismissed it. There was no room for prejudice now. What this elf thought should not -- did not-- matter to him. What mattered really was Legolas. His fear blossomed into those felt by a father.

"Inirion," he called, knowing his personal guardsman was just on the other side of the tent wall. "I need to meet with my captains."

He closed his eyes as the acknowledging voice told him it would be done. An ache was settling behind his forehead and he wished to be alone.

"You may leave," he said to the messenger, not really looking to see if he had been obeyed. But he knew he was alone then and he was both glad and worried. He had no companion but his thoughts, and sometimes his thoughts were not safe to be left with.

He closed his eyes and sighed, pinching his brow. He was very tired and he hated that he was here. His initial plan had not been one that would find him in this place, the darkest reaches of his wood. It had been his intent that he would be done with this dark forest. But he had forgotten how shrewd Celeborn could be in his negotiations.

Then again, Celeborn was his cousin, and Thranduil knew he should not underestimate the keen minds of his kin. Celeborn -- and doubly so Celeborn's wife -- was not so meek as to accept the tribute Thranduil had offered without questioning it. His mind took him back to that event.

"You cannot mean this," the Galadhrim lord had said when he read the parchment-written proclamation Thranduil had presented to him.

Thranduil had smiled vaguely in answer to that. Indeed he did mean it. Of course the offer of the southern wood was hardly the kind of thing Celeborn would have expected from the Mirkwood king. He had every right to doubt Thranduil's intent. A gift of such extravagance was rare. But truly, Thranduil recalled, it had been done with goodness in his heart. Celeborn and Galadriel had done much in the final battles against the dark powers, and the final fall of Dol Guldur could be directly attributed to them. They deserved his greatest thanks, and this was the greatest thing he could think of to show his gratitude.

Yet it was also true that he had meant to unburden himself of this dread land. Too many loved ones had been lost to him in keeping it. The land no longer meant what it once had. So much had changed for him in these recent months.

He understood too Celeborn's distaste for the gift, if that indeed is what he felt. Southern Mirkwood had once been a garden. But the dark forces had sent it into ruin. Rebuilding would be a task. Yet having seen it in better days, he knew its value was great.

"We thank you but must decline. My people have no desire to continue to do battle," Celeborn said, gently pushing the paper back into Thranduil's hand.

He had frowned then, shaking his head in disappointment. "Nay, the battle is done. The Necromancer has been destroyed!"

Celeborn's voice had remained light and his face appeared neutral though his words were hard. "Hordes of his darkling forces yet remain."

Anger marred Thranduil's mood, and briefly he thought this refusal of his gift might really be Galadriel's doing. "But his dark tower is gone and the lands may now be made into something good," Thranduil insisted.

"Thank you, but no. It is a generous offer--"

"Not one easily made!" Thranduil barked in insult.

"-- we cannot accept," Celeborn continued.

It was frustrating and embarrassing. Never in his long life had he granted such a munificent gift. He could not imagine it being rejected. To have it turned away was a humiliation he could barely face. Flustered he stammered, "But you cannot mean that."

"The task is too great."

Thranduil felt desperation move him. He had to be rid of this pain. "What if my people were to deal with the remaining menace as a part of our gift?" he offered.

Celeborn carefully regarded him. "Why do that? You should keep it as your own." The formal countenance was removed from his expression and the silver-haired lord's eyes shone genuinely.

Yet keeping the land had not seemed an option to Thranduil. His chest ached with just the thought of it. Of course, he knew it had long been Legolas' dream to make something of the southern lands -- his son had been plain in his intent -- but Thranduil had other plans for his son, plans he hoped would satisfy his son's ambitions.

But more, a new ache had of late begun to work into his heart. Thranduil recognized it knowing that his time in these lands was waning. Weariness was beginning to call him on to the Undying Lands. He only needed Legolas to return and then he intended to pass his holdings over to his son. He had much he owed and this way he was sure that Legolas would be too busy ruling and rebuilding the northernmost forests to find time to mourn the surrender of the southern ones.

To keep Mirkwood's southern lands as Celeborn suggested was not an option and he had not ever considered it. In fact, ever since he had conceived the idea of ridding himself of the land, he had felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from him. All through the drafting of the document and the mapping of the lands to be given away he had felt a tremendous sense of exhilaration. He did not want to keep it. He had sold too much of what was his in keeping it; claiming the lands now would be like taking ownership on something that was a part of his own villainy.

"I cannot," he whispered. It was hard to say more than this. Granted, the Lothlorien lord was family, yet he could not muster the truth to be told. He tugged at his rings nervously as he went on. "It hurts to keep those lands," he confessed, watching Celeborn as he said this. He could not elaborate. His shame was too great. Looking at the tightening of his fists, the strain that had been entwined there was gone. He felt quite vulnerable.

Celeborn had watched him expectantly, but after a minute it became clear to them both that Thranduil would not go on in his speech. The silver-haired lord picked up the paper he had discarded and perused it once more. "If your people rid it of the evil that currently reigns... we would accept."

And so it was done, putting Thranduil at the command of his army, in the field, ridding this place of the last of its residual evil. He resented having to lead from the front. But it could not be helped. Too many had died in the war and there were not leaders enough to do otherwise. Besides, Legolas had oft said it was important to be among the warriors and Thranduil conceded this was true, much to his surprise. He was getting good results by being available to his captains.

But that was about to end. He was being called away and a part of him felt it could not have been soon enough. He was pleased to know his presence made a difference, but he also hated the rugged conditions of the field.

And he was tired! Indeed, this near year was not much time for an elf, but an elf partaking in painful events found time could be torturously slow, just like it is with all good creatures. He did not wish to be here. And perhaps it was that their task was indeed done.

In the last many weeks, activity among the orcs had been of naught. His people scouted, they scoured, they killed foul beasts, but the threat of orcs had disappeared. Even his captains had begun speculation that the dread creatures had been annihilated. And in his obligation to Celeborn, could that not serve as having completed the task?

He felt strength in this argument and realized he had donned again his confidence and resolve. His hand curled into a fist, determination now held tight.

The forest was bettered. Granted, there were a few fell beasts yet to attend to but surely Celeborn would agree his people could handle those. And even if not, the forest was on its way to healing. Already there was much green reappearing where before there had only been grey and black. The vitality of Yavanna's spirit was as always persuasive. All that need be done now was a few clarifying chants, some song, a bit of laughter, and this forest would be good as new again. Leave it to the Silvans of Lothlorien. They could make it whole.

Celeborn could deal with that part of the task. He must, for Thranduil had decided that he was done.

"Break up the camp?" his most promising officer asked when he voiced his decision.

Thranduil gazed at the faces that had been gathered before him. Easily he could read their moods. The Silvans looked pleased, but then he wondered if their expression would be much different if he had ordered them to go on; he never really could read the Silvans. The Sindars were the ones on which he focused his attention. All grimly nodded, the corners of their mouths curling down. They wanted to go home, but wondered at the prudence of leaving just now.

His voice grew strong. "We leave," he stated succinctly. "I have been called to Lothlorien and I see no reason to leave you to carry on fighting in my absence in a land which is not ours."

Again there were nods, and he could tell the force of his voice was having an effect. "You will remain for another few days to rout out any straggling evil should it appear," he said as he directed his eyes to three of his leaders. To the Silvans he said, "You will return tomorrow to the north kingdom and aid my seneschal lord in the restoration being done there. And you," he said to the last captains, "will escort me to Lothlorien."

"We leave in the morning," he repeated.

**TBC**


	24. Steps

**A/N: **I have a deal to strike. The muses have been kind to me and have provided me with a wealth of words. In the recent weeks I've been able to compose not one, not two, but _three_ new chapters. Here is the first, and for fans of this story, there are two others ready to go right after. Seriously, they're all done. But... (I said I wanted to strike a deal), I'd really like to see this story cross the 100 review mark. That was never really an issue in the past, either as Ithilien or Anarien. But when the Evil Empire (aka fanfictiondotnet) deleted Anarien and all prior reviews were lost I was forced to start over again as Anarithilien. Since then the review numbers have been much, much smaller. So to boost my injured ego, I'm holding the next chapter hostage. Yeah yeah, I know, reviews are not important. I keep telling myself that. But that 100 number... its... its... its a crossover point. You know? Does that make any sense? Thus I will release the next chapter when I reach 100, or in two weeks time, which ever comes first. I don't even care if the reviews are for this chapter, just help me get over that hump. And the chapter after that... well, we'll get there when we get there. For now, happy reading!

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Three: Steps _

They watched through the cold slits that were their eyes, tracking the elves from their hidden burrows, evading the keen senses of those Firstborn. Not all evil had been lifted and the ill mood of the murky wood yet protected them in these dens they had long ago built. Still, the darkness was fading, and the collapse of the dark tower and the ghostly host that reigned there made it clearer with each passing night that it would be impossible to stay where they were. The world was changing. They would need to find retreat.

They waited for their means to escape and licked their lips in pleasure when they saw half the elven host depart. Now was their time. Now they could escape west. Their plan was not complex; they would find refuge in the mountains further on. And they would be welcomed, they were sure, in the former dwarven caves that ran beneath those distant crests. Orcs thrived in large numbers there and all knew they were less vulnerable when they worked as a pack.

The time was right to strike. So few were left of their grim kind that they knew it would be unwise to move until the odds were better balanced to their favor. Strike and spill blood. They would not be denied that one last pleasure. They looked to their leader. _Soon_, he told them. And when the blood battle was complete they would flee, leaving the carcasses of dead elves to speak their final revenge.

It would be enough to drive them. The taste of death was like food to an orc. It could sustain them, fire them on. It would be what they needed to continue, for once routed from their dens, they could not go back.

They waited for the signal and they thought through their coming steps. So much had changed and now they would march forward into the unknown. It did not please them, but they could be adaptable if they had to be. So long as darkness lived in even the smallest places, they would go on. Darkness mattered. Evil mattered. Blood mattered. That is what they lived for.

xxxxx

Horses were not kept by the warriors of the south wood. It was not due to a shortage of animals, nor was it the lack of skill or even the desire to use them. In fact, brute animals would have been very helpful to Thranduil and his brigade. Their trip could have gone faster and in the forest they could have been of aid in rousting dark forces. But the shadow that pervaded the forest was unsettling on the animals. The elves had great ability with all creatures, but their skill was not so great as to quell the innate fears conjured in their four-legged friends when they came to the south. Evil had penetrated the wood deeply. Any horses brought, even the most aggressive chargers, felt it keenly. Thus the elves thought it kinder to keep horses away.

Thus, all travel in and about the southern lands was done afoot. And now as a result they trekked to the forested land of the Galadhrim on their own legs.

Thranduil matched his pace to the warriors around him, his feet keeping time with those on either side of him. Elf steps were near silent when stealthily applied, yet his mind counted out the cadence,

The repetition of the march, one step before the other, gave him pause. Left. Right. Left. The droning sound cleared his thoughts and he found his mind drifting onto introspective reckonings. Yet strangely, he did not feel burdened by self-loathing; one might expect that in an environment of exposed vulnerability. Their march, quick-stepped though it was, pushed Thranduil into ponderance of his world. He marched and considered his actions and feelings. He had been the fulcrum to so much of what had happened to his realm in the last many years. Some measures were small, others huge, but the king was able to look at them all plainly,

These were the first steps.

It was surprising how his feelings had undergone such dramatic changes of late. With the usurping of darkness, he felt as if he had come to awaken from a dream. His emotions were keen and his senses were more alive. That is not to say he didn't feel these things before. He did. But what came to him now was like a bath of cold water. There was no soft lingering over comfortable nuances. Everything was done with motivation and purpose. He could not say it had been such before. In fact, except in his youth, he could not remember the last time he had acted with such reason.

Certainly his feelings for Legolas had change and he wondered that he had not tried to make it so before. Of course he had always felt love for his son -- misguided as it was -- but guilt and the desire to repair the damage he had created were now the chief cause for his current quest. He would surrender the southern wood to Celeborn because it was the better thing to do, a tribute to his shame, and that was a bittersweet admission. For too many years he had made the land sacrificial, pacifying the darkness through the deaths of countless men and bargaining, always bargaining, for the sake of keeping his son safe. He had ruined so much in the process.

Perhaps as the forest's cleansing took more effect, he could redeem himself? With power shifting, it would be a better land. This personal sacrifice was for the betterment of all beyond him. He told himself that. He felt sure what he did was the best thing; that at least was uplifting.

It was time for him to part. The call of the west pulled upon him and he yearned for a new beginning. He had failed in Arda. Now that the war had come to an end, it was better he try to clean up what he could and leave the noble task of leadership to others. He had proven he was unfit.

Stoic and forthright though he attempted to now be, the admission still stung. In these last few hundred years southern Mirkwood had come to be a dark forest under his rule. That the lands were even called Mirkwood said much for the failure that was his. But his thrall had ended, and it had come to be the moment when Legolas had parted him. That was the beginning of his awakening. It had nearly broken him to see it, but now he made efforts to better of himself. It was not easy to do. Influence from the south had played loud in his soul for very many years before. It dug into his flesh, it pulled on him, and he could feel it like the phantom touch of a bauble jewel against his skin. The corruption had affected more than just the wood. It had altered him.

Yet his own healing was underway. The fall of the Necromancer spelled out freedom for his forest -- and for him. He was gaining control of tangled vines and brackish growth, and he was also learning to tame his arrogance. He was changing.

He blinked at that thought as his feet pressed forward, one before the other. There was sadness and pride hidden deep in that fact but he did not dig at it. He simply acknowledged it. Introspection could be painful if one grew attached to it, but surprisingly he felt very neutral in his judgment of himself,,, at least for this moment.

For example, Thranduil realized he would have balked at the idea of traveling without steed were it years prior. The dictum was that kings were not supposed to march. They conquered and ruled. They did not live as the common man did. Somehow sitting astride a handsome beast was a symbol of the noble's warrior spirit. Yet Thranduil now saw that arriving regally on the back of a horse was a simple waste of time. Procuring horses for himself and his troops would have taken more time than actually going without. Appearances were put aside for the sake of expediting matters quicker. What could he conquer that he needed to pretend such importance? He continued in his steps.

Foremost in Thranduil's mind was not regal appearance but that Legolas needed help. He had not felt this so much when they were still under the dark eaves of the forest, but once they had spilled out into the open fields, his certainty grew stronger. He felt an unexplainable affinity toward his son now, and this too he had not felt in the darkness. Could it be that he was suddenly appreciating a bond he had never sought before? Had he never even considered it existed? If he had known of it, it might have served him better in brighter days. Still it was foreign and new to him, for as he turned his thoughts outward to the world, he thought perhaps he could sense Legolas' presence beyond. Like the sound of his heartbeat within his own chest, he felt he could hear/feel/sense Legolas' rhythm tied to his being. More startling, while he had never noticed it before, now it whispered that fear and pain were coupled in his son's being.

That sense urged him forward. Steps followed steps.

Why had he never noticed it before? An elven bond was born with the conception of another. He had felt his ties to his son from the beginning, before Legolas had even emerged from the womb. And yet he had let that feeling go, thrust it away with the emergence of heartbreak. He was willing to realize the blame for his inattention to this sense, but he wondered if Legolas had not also shut himself off to their bond. It had been years, truly, since Thranduil could recall the touch of his son's soul to his. He could even pinpoint the moment he last felt it. It came with a knifepoint struck into flesh, and while he felt that tie, he had willingly severed it too. In that given moment, the pain of losing his dear Laerniel had made him bitter and spiteful. Cutting off his heart was his way of expressing his own grief.

But in banishing his ties, had he taught his son to do likewise? Legolas had been very young then, only having just reached an age of tender maturity. He should have been given guidance. In fact, Thranduil now wondered if Legolas even knew that he had the power to reach into the soul of another. It was his own hurt that made him think that if Legolas were old enough to flee south and do battle, he was grown enough to no longer need a parent-figure in his life. Let him fend for himself!

But that thought was so untrue and Thranduil wondered how he could have surrendered to such a notion! Physical maturity was not the equal of emotional maturity. Besides, despite cutting the connection, his love had not stopped.

Ai, but his wisdom was shallow! As he considered it now, it may well have been that Thranduil had damaged a part of his son's being. He had stunted a soul's growth and hindered Legolas from feeling any ties to those beyond. Outwardly it might not show, but he now fretted that in the deep places of Legolas' fae he might have been done great harm. He may have made him vulnerable to things of the world beyond the forest.

He staggered in his steps.

And now he was told Legolas had befriended a dwarf. The elf king inwardly shuddered. He outwardly hid his revulsion, but privately it disgusted him to think he was journeying to see a filthy creature who deserved none of his concern. Were it not that the naugrim was attached to his son...

But here too was proof of his son's muddled senses. To befriend a dwarf...? Thranduil could put his personal prejudice aside, and he could even forego his physical disgust. It was mortality that frightened him. The presence of death was one of the greatest reasons elves chose to depart Arda. Could Legolas not see what he was exposing himself to in making this creature his friend?

Having thought this though, Thranduil reasoned that perhaps the friendship with the dwarf was only a fleeting thing. It could be that his son and the dwarf were only comrades of war. Relationships forged in battle lived throughout history, but they need not be lasting. It was easier to accept this; it was what he chose to believe.

And before he knew it, his steps ended. He moved no further forward. They had arrived.

The corners of his mouth turned up as a contingent moved toward them. It was in recognition of the person he had been and what he was becoming that he had to toss a small amount of gratitude toward Haldir and his fellows who were arriving without mounts.

And gazing at those coming forth Thranduil immediately recognized similarities between realms. He could see for example that the marchwarden of Lothlorien was a Silvan. He had too many in his own command not to know the traits. Haldir carried an air about him, and Thranduil knew the elf would not be swayed by royal status. It was deed Haldir respected. He bowed formally before Thranduil, of course, but knowing his kind the king knew he would have done that with any invited guest.

"Welcome, Lord Thranduil," Haldir greeted. "My apologies that Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel are not here to meet you."

"Do they linger in their return?" the elf king asked, not thoroughly familiar with the lord and lady's plans. He knew they had traveled to Gondor for the wedding of the new king to the Lady Undomiel, but what came after he did not know.

"They take old paths. They travel by way of Eregion," the elf watchman answered.

Thranduil was taken aback by that news. That realm was long gone, but the memories lived thickly. It was so for Thranduil. It was likely twice so for the lord and lady. Why would they wish to relive the nightmares of that place?

"However, it is certain that they will return soon," Haldir continued, "and mayhap they will arrive in time enough to offer you their aid. We are here to escort you to the bedside of your son's companion." He nodded to those in his party. More Silvans.

"Good. I would see the dwarf as soon as possible." Thranduil replied, pushing aside thoughts of ancient lands.

The fair elf only nodded in answer, and then he indicated the direction with a wave of his hand to lead the king on. But Thranduil did not move. He felt unsure. One foot wavered and he was uncertain whether he should step forward or move back. Something within caused him to gaze back in the direction of his own wood. He could not explain it, but he felt eyes were upon him. There. Eyes were upon him there.

xxxxx

He stared at the dwarf, torn between feelings of wonder, disdain, horror and apathy. This was the one his son had named friend, and the elf king shook his head. It had to be a wartime forging. It had to be. He had trouble understanding it, or ignoring it otherwise. Yet the Galadhrim were certainly not going to let him forget that his son was a companion to the strange creature now taking up the bed.

The king had not meant to bend to rumors. He had learned long ago that doing so only surfaced insecurities he tried to keep buried; he typically stepped away from conversations laden in gossip. But the elves of Lothlorien were not quiet in expressing shock and awe about the friendship fostered under the canopy of their roof. Legolas and Gimli were indeed well-known to them.

It was told that the pair had been at odds with each other at the quest's start. Further, they were not well-knit friends even when they had come to the Golden Wood. But by the time they parted Lothlorien they had become as companionable as brothers.

Many suggested Lady Galadriel had put a spell upon them, but others said it was only the dwarf who had been bewitched, and that his enchantment was for her. Thranduil assumed the attachment was not one of magic. Galadriel had many personal skills; she was wont to ply them. She did not need spells. After all, he knew her methods. Gimli was not the first she had charmed.

Again, he felt disgust, and the only thing that amused him was the shared disdain he kept with Celeborn for this lesser race. Being from Doriath, Celeborn had the same reasons for disliking dwarves as Thranduil. He recalled his cousin's stymied protests for Galadriel's friendship with the naugrim class. But then he frowned, for he also recalled that the lady quelled her husband's objections. Her concern for the dwarves superceded his hatred.

What did it matter though? He watched the dwarf sleep and all he could think was not enough was being done for the sake of his son. Bowing to rumor, the Galadhrim showed great concern for the dwarf's care. Little was said of Legolas.

The dwarf moaned in his sleep, and Thranduil eyed him. "Grey..." the small figure murmured in what Thranduil assumed was the Common Tongue. It was hard to tell when it was only a word, or even a part of a word that was being said. The small creature winced as he shifted in the bed, and then nothing more was uttered as he settled into deeper, more fretful unconsciousness.

Beads of perspiration dotted the creature's brow, and the elf king furrowed his brow in distaste, finding it unpleasant that the dwarf should sweat. Glancing toward the archway that led to the hall, he wondered if an attendant would be about to deal with what appeared to be a fever, but no one seemed near.

Frowning even more, he rose from his seat and stepped around to the other side of the bed where the bowl of cool water and cloths were kept. Thranduil had watched the aide when he had done this before, but in his curious observation, the elf king had not thought the task would fall to him. Casting his eyes to the hall again, he hoped the appearance of a healer might stay him. He had been waiting for more news and been kept here waiting. But no one came. He reached into the bowl to pull out a wet towel. Ringing out the cloth just as he had seen the other do, he folded it neatly before turning to the dwarf.

Near as he now was, he was surprised by the dwarf's small size. With tempers so fierce and voices so loud, Thranduil had never really thought about dwarves being diminutive in scale. But here, this dwarf seemed frail and vulnerable, like a child. Stripped of his raiment, he was nearly half the size of an elf in height. Pitiful as he was, Thranduil had difficulty looking upon the figure in this state. Centuries of conflict and animosities had taught the elf to feel contempt for these creatures, but here, now, he felt pity. It did not help that the dwarf was ruddy with fever. His son's friend truly was in a state of vulnerable need.

And that angered elf king further... how could Legolas expose himself to purposeful heartbreak by befriending one so susceptible as this? Here again was folly! Mortals were constantly standing at the doorway of death. He could not stomach the thought of his son's foolishness. He took a step back.

But then he realized he had done the same in taking Annatar as a friend. He had not thought then about what it might do to him to attach his feelings to a Man. And when the time came and Annatar died -- at least as he knew it -- he hurt. His anguish was deep even if his feelings regarding the identity of his friend were conflicted. Some might argue that he had witnessed the deaths of kinsmen over his long life; he should be accustomed to such heartbreaks. But somehow it was different when an elf passed. With an elf, there was the assurance of knowing that, even if the physical body was put aside, the spirit lived on; eventually the parted elf was renewed again in Aman, the place where all elves journeyed eventually.

But then he also knew that death, whether it came to an elf or a mortal, hurt. Someday he would be reunited with his mother, with his father, with Laerniel, and he knew he should rejoice in that and he should put his sorrows aside. But the pain of their deaths hurt, and it did not matter that he would see them again someday. It hurt now to be without them.

And in the pit of his stomach he knew the reason the elves of Lothlorien did not speak of Legolas was because they thought he was dead too. The loss of a kinsman would hurt. The loss of the son was worse. Better to dote on the living than to imagine the dead.

_No!_ Thranduil proclaimed in his mind_It was not true._ He would not believe it true. He could not think otherwise and survive. Legolas' life had been what he had been fighting for all these years.

"Tell me of my son," he urged stepping forward again, but the dwarf only shifted in his sleep saying nothing.

Ignoring his trepidation about tending the creature, he dampened the dwarf's brow. Gimli sighed as the coolness soothed him, and surprisingly the sound was gratifying to Thranduil's ears, as if he were being thanked.

He wetted the towel again. The heat of the dwarf's skin rose through the layers of cloth quickly -- it was a grave illness that laid this dwarf down. But more astoundingly was the feel of the naugrim's skin. Somehow he had expected it to be thick, like hard leather. It was not. In fact, it was not so unlike an elf's, save for the pervading beard.

He ignored the memories of the dwarves attacking his home in Doriath. He had been a small child then, but he had lost his mother and that was a pain that did not dim. Still, he pushed his prejudice away. Yet his heart ached. He bowed his head as tears filled his eyes. "Tell me of my son," he whispered.

It was a forward step. For his son, he was willing to change. Still the dwarf did not speak.

**TBC**


	25. Wounds

**A/N:** Gods! I only now have realized that the html editor on this site stripped out my markers in the last chapter. No wonder some of you were lost! Those markers (now indicated as a string of x's) denote the end of a section. Without them... well you were sliding into the brains of orcs, Thranduil, and again Thranduil, only later in the day. How confusing! Hopefully that is now remedied in the last chapter as well as this one.

And now I must THANK YOU! Since you've given me my magic number here is the reward. New chapter. It's all yours. I'll put the next one out in a week. And as requested, I've enabled Anonymous Reviews. (I'm really very sorry about that. I actually don't recall monkeying with the feature, but it's possible, in a moment of gloom, after an especially nasty review, I might have done it. I'm sorry I made things difficult for some.)

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Four: Wounds_

He could hear someone moan. The heart-wrenching noise lay on the cusp of a sob, and he felt sorrow for the other's agony. It was unfair that there could be so much hurt in this world. He knew that because he was in pain too.

Such a noise is disturbing to one who suffers. But then he realized the sound came from him and he felt shame for it. He was a dwarf; he was not supposed to show his hurt. Further, he could not understand what had caused him to cry out.

He heard a noise, someone moving nearby.

"Legolas...?" he whispered though the word barely passed his lips. He struggled to open his eyes. It was all he had strength for.

A blurred shadow hovered over him. His eyelids were heavy and he barely could see. "I am sorry for that," said a voice apologetically. It was not Legolas.

Voices spoke. None of them made any sense. A pause came. A hand brushed the hair back from his brow. "The blow to his head was severe," someone said. He was surprised he could make sense of those words.

"And the other injuries?" another questioned. This voice was deep and resonated with power.

"There are lacerations and bruising, but the injury to his head is the most serious of his hurts," the first voice replied. "Whatever happened, it was a strong blow that caused this. Dwarves have very thick bones."

"You know that he spoke, do you not?" the second pointed out. "Just now."

"He does that," the former said. "He has said little."

"He spoke the name of Legolas. That is more than just a light awakening to me. Has anyone been able to question him?" the second voice asked.

"He has been too ill for that, my lord. There is bleeding and swelling within and we must let it subside before we press him."

Words. There were words and nothing made sense to him. There was a pounding in his head. Nausea lay beneath all his senses.

He was being prodded. "Tell me about Legolas," the second voice urged beyond the noise.

Gimli struggled to regain his ability to speak. Someone was speaking of his friend. "Leg,,,?" His voice was barely what could be called noise.

"Please, my lord. He needs his rest."

The pulsing had grown too loud. He felt ill. Again there were words but he could not follow them. A ringing sound grew in his ears and for a time there was no time.

There was darkness. And then...

The branchlike hand striking out...

The look of fear in Legolas' eyes...

The wall washing away...

The horse nudging him and snorting breath into his face...

The look of fear in Legolas' eyes...

The taste of mud in his mouth...

The sudden fear invoked by the boom of thunder as he spun around to the sound...

The Lothlorien leaves beneath him...

Legolas assuring him all would be well...

The look of fear in Legolas' eyes...

Eyes.

A branch.

Water.

Fear.

He awoke to his own cry.

A cool hand brushed over his brow, soothing him. "Peace."

Worry crept into his heart. He would know of his friend if he could. But all he could manage was a moan of pain. Again. His head felt like it might burst, so great was the hurt. The hand felt so comforting and he let coolness work over him as he slipped once again into unconsciousness. All was still there.

xxxxxx

Thranduil was not sure if he was furious or frustrated. Perhaps both. He had been standing by, waiting. The elves of Lothlorien had been tending this creature for five days and they had yet to get one coherent sentence from him.

"You think there is more to be done."

The voice came from behind. He should have heard the other coming. He had sensed that he was being observed, but he had missed the approach of steps.

He pivoted to find Haldir, watching him.

"You must not put the blame on the healers. Mortals recover very slowly."

"I begin to doubt he recovers at all," Thranduil replied in a surly tone.

"The healers have other opinions," the Lothlorien guard said. "I do not doubt them, nor do I doubt Gimli. He is not weak. Whatever his current state, you must be certain he fights to regain his health."

Thranduil snorted. "How strange to hear you speak so of a dwarf," he murmured. He could sense the elf's detachment and it added to his ire. "He speaks and none attempt to learn what he might say."

"He has been heard, Lord Thranduil. But his utterances are always the same. There is just not enough strength in him to tell us more. Nor is there coherence. Until Gimli fully awakens, I would doubt anything he says. But that will change," Haldir replied, his words sounding sincere. Then his eyes shifted and the whole of his appearance changed. Concern marked his features. "I am certain he worries for your son. They would not be parted easily."

"And why is it we do not search for my son?" Thranduil snapped, not willing to be consoled.

"We have sent our best trackers," Haldir replied, formality returning to his voice. "There is no trail to follow. The rain was long in coming and very heavy; all signs of where the dwarf tread have been lost to us."

"Can you make no guesses based upon other clues? He rode a Rohan steed; send trackers into that land!" Thranduil demanded, knowing he was becoming irrational but not caring.

"Rohan is vast. Where would you have us look, my lord?" Haldir asked, not backing down to the ferocity of Thranduil's demand.

"These injuries the dwarf suffered came from a brutal beating. Someone inflicted them upon him!"

"I doubt they were inflicted by men of the Mark."

"Someone did this!" Thranduil exclaimed.

"Orcs, wild men, wargs, trolls... there are many possibilities, my lord. Do not be quick to blame one group when there are others far more likely," Haldir advised.

"The dwarf rode a _horse_! Start at that!"

"We have," Haldir answered in infuriating calm. "Messengers have been sent to the new king of that land to inquire of the animal."

"They have not returned yet?"

"Patience would be counseled, Lord."

"Each day is one too long! How can I remain calm when my son might be in need?" Thranduil exclaimed.

"I would think you would be more tolerant of your worries," Haldir replied, his stoic demeanor riling the king even more.

Thranduil rounded on the elf, not liking the direction of his comment. "Being lord of a dark wood does not exclude me from concern."

"For hundred of years your people have fought evil and your son has been at the heart of that battle. Did you not worry for him then?" Haldir asked, coming to his point in a very succinct and personal way.

Shocked at the elf's forward nature, Thranduil wondered if there was challenge in the words. They were an affront, whatever was meant by them. He came to wonder anew for rumors. "My son is precious to me and that is all you need know," the king said in a low growl, feeling for all his might as if he had been set up to disclose more than he felt comfortable relaying. Thinking back, it might be that the Lothlorien messenger who had come to his tent did hunt out gossip. He desired a shift in the conversation immediately. "Tell me why I am here! You summon me to your woods with dire news of a dwarf associated with my son and then we do nothing!"

"It was thought perhaps you might know where to look."

"I --?" Thranduil asked, unsure what to say to this. Shame took him suddenly. It spoke volumes that he did not have a clue as to how to respond to this point.

"But since you do not," Haldir went on, apparently seeing Thranduil's humiliation in his single word reply, "we must wait. We understand you suffer, King Thranduil, but we do not sit idly. The dwarf is being attended and trackers do seek your son out. We have sent word to King Eomer. And we wait."

"It seems nothing is accomplished!" Thranduil railed, donning irritation to mask his pitiful show as a father.

"My lord, you do not need me to tell you of patience. Progress comes. The dwarf, though still unconscious, shows signs of improvement. We had not thought it so a few days ago. My trackers, though finding nothing, narrow down the field of search the more they look. And I expect an answer from Rohan is forthcoming. We also send trackers into the mountains and to the fringes of Fangorn. Something will come of our search," Haldir said with a gentle nod of the head. "Soon too, the Lady will come. And when that happens, her powers will aid us as well."

Thranduil scoffed, hurt and no longer caring at the propriety of his words or actions. His ego was bruised by the evidence of his ineptitude. "Power? Do you mean that which she summons with her Ring? I thought that grew diminished now that the One Ring was destroyed."

Haldir quirked his brow at the king. "Are you not already familiar with the power of rings?"

Thranduil's brow furrowed with the elf's words. What was Haldir saying to him? He looked down, crossing his hands and assuring himself nothing of his feelings were visible.

Haldir continued, "What you guess is not true; with the One Ring gone, Nenya is restored to what had been its original intent."

Irritated still, the king retorted with a snipe. He knew he was tramping into dangerous territory but he couldn't help himself. "I am sure the Lady enjoys the exotic pleasures Nenya adds to her parlor tricks! She always enjoyed being in a prominent light. It must be of great aid to her."

Haldir's nostrils flared and for the first time Thranduil thought he saw something of a fiery reaction from the elf. "Mind your words, my lord. You are a guest here and it does not do to besmirch your hostess, even if she is unseen."

Without thinking, Thranduil gave a smarting answer. "I am guest to Celeborn, for he is cousin to me and the Lord of these lands. The Lady is... his wife. Were she gone, and with her her _magical_ Ring, he would still be the king."

Stiffly, Haldir replied. "The land is equally governed, as would your wood be were your queen yet alive." It was a glancing blow, and Thranduil, in gazing into the elf's eyes, could see that it was meant that way. In a low voice, the other went on. "It does not do to slander her, Lord."

Thranduil was not sure if he should lash out or quietly swallow the insult. He dipped his head. He was not used to being challenged. He felt demeaned, and it did not please him. At the same time, an inner voice told him he deserved the treatment he received. He was worthy of little else. Yet he did not outwardly show how he felt. He knew enough to keep that quiet. Instead, he righted his posture, standing tall as he said, "My apologies. I am upset for the sake of my son. I do not mean insult."

As was typical of the Silvans, Haldir did not press his lead. Resuming his calm appearance, he said, "To address your earlier comment, the Ring of the Lady is powerful yet, though the reason for its creation grows nil; the time of the elves grows dim. The power of Nenya wavers in its strength for that reason alone."

"And what is it you think Galadriel will be able to do with these _waning_ powers once she returns?" the king asked, and though he had not meant it, he could not entirely keep the vitriol from his voice. Catching the quality of his emotion, he felt sure his shame was becoming visible. His Passion must be apparent now. He tried to stymie the effect it had on him.

"She has healing skills. She may be able to lift the dwarf's stasis, and she may be able to use her mirror to help find your son," Haldir offered, then turned his gaze upon the king, piercing him with the coldness of hostility. "We also believe she and Lord Celeborn were among the last to see the elf and dwarf pair; she may know Legolas' whereabouts without resorting to other means, something you would know were _you_ in closer communication with him. Had you not betrayed his trust, you might not be in this situation."

The wound was thrust. This was not rumor speaking; it was fact. And this stab was the worst of all. Haldir had seen through him and found his most vulnerable place. Thranduil turned away. He could not speak. He did not know how the warden knew what had come between Legolas and him, but it did not matter. For now he felt only the pain of renewed injury. An old wound had been reopened.

Scars carry memories. How much easier it would be if he could have brushed aside the pain of remembrance like one forgets the source of a minor bruise. But this memory bore heavy hurt. He wanted to remember none of it but instead he remembered all. His mind took him back to the day of the messenger. The _other _messenger who had come to him from Imladris. Was it not strange that all news delivered to him of his son came through a servant of the other realms? That thought only added to his guilt.

Haldir did not wait for a dismissal; he turned and parted ways leaving Thranduil alone on their path without another word. The injury was there and Thranduil bled alone. The Mirkwood king stood surrounded only by trees and the sounds of the forest, It was just as it had been that day when his servant had approached him, and like the recollection of dreams he allowed his mind to journey into the past.

"My lord," Galion had said as he approached the king. It was almost a year past. The king knew his eyes betrayed his pain and that Galion saw it.

This road in the woods was one he oft took when his heart felt the weight of his sins. He did not look for forgiveness here. In fact, like pressing into a wound, he used his guilt to dig even deeper into his pain. Like a scourge, this hurt was self-inflicted and he wanted it; it strengthened his resolve to abstain from his worst vices, to refuse his Passion.

His friend placed a hand upon Thranduil's forearm. "I am sorry to disturb you here," he added, obviously knowing this was a personal time for the king.

Thranduil smiled weakly. "I was likely as not to be come upon here. It was safe to assume I would not be given chance to wallow in my sorrows for long. It is just as well you come, for I fear my soul cannot take much more of my anguish." Galion was one of the few Thranduil could confide such a thing to. Of all his servants, this elf was dear to him and had known much of Thranduil's past, far more than even Legolas. He did not judge.

Changing the subject, his brow quirked in question. The seneschal rarely left the walls of the stronghold, even though the grounds of the settlement area were safe. "What brings you personally to me? Is there something that requires my immediate attention?"

Galion's sympathetic expression hardened as soft feelings of compassion turned to the business of the kingdom. "I had thought you might not pay heed if I had sent the guard to fetch you alone. A messenger has come from Imladris. He brings word of--" He paused, the implication stated with the name left unsaid. Continuing, he said, "I thought you might want to know immediately."

Thranduil's heart leapt. "Ill news, Galion?" he asked, grabbing for the arm of his friend. He had already put too much upon himself this day. He did not know if he had the strength to hear what he most feared.

"I know no more than this. Will you come back to the palace for this?"

Thranduil gazed about him. He had been walking the paths, strolling the grounds near where Legolas kept his home. He knew his son was not there, his person missing for weeks already. But Thranduil knew his whereabouts. The presence of this messenger merely confirmed that his son had left for the council in Rivendell.

Thranduil's chest hurt. He dreaded what was to come in the message for whatever was said it was surely bad news. He wanted to be someplace where the hurt would be lessened by familiarity. And he knew temptation existed in the stone cold walls of the palace, It was another reason to stay away.

"Bring the messenger here," he answered.

His friend's expression showed surprise, but it also told him he was understood. His eyes looked out to the edge of the forest and then turning back to Thranduil's gaze, it was clear misery on the king's behalf was acknowledged and felt.

Thranduil nodded and the servant was gone. He was left alone to mull the possibilities that might come of the message. He did his best to prepare his heart.

"Your highness," the lead guard in the contingent said in what felt like only a minute later. "Lord Elrond sends tidings from Imladris. We bring his messenger to stand before you."

Thranduil's eyes dragged over the group before him. He sighted Galion and found courage in the familiar face. The king's aide then nodded to the visitor so that he might step forward. The messenger dropped to one knee, dipping his head in a show of respect as he crossed one hand to his heart.

Thranduil's gazed at the herald. The elf had remained in his bowed position. "Come with me," he ordered, knowing that in saying this not only would the messenger follow, but so too would the guards.

He walked straight along the path to the place where he knew they would have most privacy. The flet he chose was securely kept, further from most others and, though modest in scale, well-made with moveable walls that could seal off voices from uninvited ears. The talan's owner apparently appreciated respectful silence. But then when you have lived within walls for most of your life it is hard to give up exclusivity. Such was the case here, for this was Legolas' home.

They climbed the stairs leading upward and then entered the flet. There were no locks or barring gates at the threshold. This was a feature in the homes of the Silvans that Legolas had adopted into his building and Thranduil appreciated the invitation to trespass. It proved possession meant little to the elf, and his trust was great. Legolas did not know this of him, but Thranduil was quite familiar with the younger elf's home; the king oft came here when his loneliness and mourning got the better of him. Even if he did not think Legolas would appreciate a father's succor within his belongings, it was the Silvan way. Thranduil mused at how different his son was from him.

The walls were already closed, a sign that Legolas had planned his departure. This was another reason Thranduil had not fretted long about his son's disappearance, at least not in terms of something dire befalling him. Legolas had known he was leaving.

And despite their estrangement, Thranduil knew almost immediately that his son had parted the realm and also where he had gone. Those under the king's employ observed Legolas' actions. Even if they had not been watching, Thranduil could have surmised his moves. No coincidence was the timing. When word from Elrond had been sent requesting a meeting of council, Legolas had been there. Further he had heard Thranduil's comments in response to the invitation. Although Legolas did not speak to him on the matter (Legolas rarely spoke to Thranduil on anything unless asked to report) it was clear that his son had not accepted the king's shame as reason for decline.

It was unfortunate that his son could not see then that he had been trying to reform his ways. He did not realize how humiliated Thranduil had been or how shaken he was by his failure to keep the creature, Gollum. It had not been his intent to let the leaders of the other elven realms down. But then the dark state of his wood proved failure was all he was capable of. They should have guessed what would come of the task.

So it was somewhat with pride that Thranduil actually regarded Legolas' decision to attend Elrond's council, even if it was done without the king's permission. Legolas was a crown prince. Nothing could renounce that, and in many respects his decision was sounder than that of the king. Thranduil respected it. He sanctioned it, in fact, in written notice so dictated to Galion after the fact. He was glad Legolas had done what he could not.

But now standing in his son's abandoned flet, knowing wan news was about to be delivered to him, he regretted Legolas' stalwart character. Before all things, he wanted his son back, and the only good fortune he knew he had was that eternity lay before them that he might try to win his son's love back within that time, despite his mistakes.

"I assume Lord Elrond's message is to be verbally given," he said in the direction of the messenger when they were all within the space.

"I carry both written word and spoken," the servant said in answer.

Thranduil held out his hand. "Give me first the written."

And the note was then passed from the courier's pouch to Galion's hand and then to the king's. He broke the seal, ignoring the subtle shake of his hands.

_Lord Thranduil, _Elrond's long cursive strokes spelled out.

_You will pardon the succinct nature of this note but I dare not communicate much in written form. _Thranduil completely understood the logic in this statement. He would have thought Elrond foolish had he written anything of substance in the letter. The times were too dangerous to risk real news getting into enemy hands by communiqué.

_I send this to express my gratitude for sharing news of your realm. _Thranduil considered this sentence. Although he had worked to hide it even in his own realm, there were probably some who knew of the estrangement between Legolas and him, and it could be construed that Elrond really was writing to let Thranduil know his son was in their care. Knowing this would cause embarrassment and humiliation, he was letting the king know, in subtext, that Legolas disobeyed his orders. If so, it was an insult and Thranduil resented it. He was still commander of his own affairs; he did not need Elrond to report his son's actions. But then reading the next sentence, he thought perhaps his reaction was created through his own guilt. He was putting too much into the words. The message went on,_ I also wish to pass my sympathies on for the losses taken in the escape of the prisoner in your care. I regret that your people had to suffer because of the task put to you. Despite the tragedy, you and those in your realm excel in these matters where others do not. Please accept my most heartfelt apologies that you had to endure this on the behalf of others less fit. My deepest condolences are expressed._

The king inhaled deeply as he read the next statement._ I have asked that the servant you had sent _-- Legolas, the elf lord need not name him --_ remain to undertake an even greater task. _This was the news Thranduil feared though at least he knew Legolas was still alive. _A message from him follows. Know that we will do our utmost to protect him in this but also know that his mission is dangerous. As he puts it, what he does may have an effect that goes beyond the work he does in his homeland. As you well know, his desire is great to end the darkness that mires this world and he is willing to sacrifice himself for that cause. It is an admirable trait you have fostered in your subject. Though the tribute is great, were I you I should be proud._

Thranduil felt tears coming to his eyes. Legolas' self-sacrifice was the last thing he wanted.

_As always, you have my thanks and deepest respect. _And then there was Elrond's seal marking the page and standing for his signature. Somehow that bit of formality, something that Thranduil would normally respect on any other occasion, seemed distasteful and cheap in this missive. This news was grim; it merited a personal signature.

He looked up to the messenger. "The other letter," he said, demanding the note he knew this elf carried.

"Do you not wish to hear Lord Elrond's words first?" the servant asked.

"The letter," Thranduil replied doing his best to hold onto his patience.

The note was passed over to him. He couldn't help noticing how unembellished the cord sealing it appeared. There was no mark to indicate the sender.

_My dear Lord Thranduil,_ the letter formally began. Of course Legolas had not addressed him as 'Father.' It had been long years since he had been called such, and even if he did on usual occasions, the times were wrong for expressions of familiarity. Still, the king immediately recognized the penmanship as belonging to his son.

_Lord Elrond has requested that I send you message telling of my condition, and more specifically he wishes I tell you my reasons for taking on this new mission. I comply by sending you this message, though in truth it is false; I have no message I wish to share. I expect you understand the meaning behind those words. _Thranduil felt the sting in that and his chest tightened. To an enemy observer, the significance of those sentences might be read as some subtle message, a caveat of hidden meaning, but Thranduil knew they meant exactly what they said.

_What I do now is dangerous and I do not expect I will survive. Nonetheless, I feel it best I try. _There could be no doubt these were Legolas' words and he could almost hear the remainder of the argument. Legolas would say what occurs in Mirkwood is just a small sample of the shadow that falls beyond. He would say that if Thranduil would not give him the means to fight in his own lands, he might do better to fight the enemy where such would be granted. Like it or not, Legolas was determined to confront the Shadow.

_Should I pass, please do me favor of distributing my effects among the captains with whom I have served. They are most loyal to me and would appreciate these items, meager as they are._ How strange that Thranduil should be reading these words while he stood in the midst of such belongings.

_We will meet again, here or in Aman, of that I am certain. Until then, I remain forever faithful to the realm. _

And that was it. No signature attached, no words of endearment expressed, no sorrow contained within. The note ended flat, and Thranduil felt the blow Legolas had meant to strike in that absence.

He wheeled around, not daring to face anyone in this moment, fearful that his agony would be visible to any who might observe him. He tried to control the sound of his voice, holding back the quaver that threatened to spill into the air. "Did he send oral message?" Thranduil asked.

"Lord Elrond wishes you to know --" the messenger began.

Thranduil quickly spun to face the elf. Almost desperately he said, "Nay, not Elrond. The other. My son. Did he send word?"

The messenger looked momentarily confused, and Thranduil understood then that he had not known Legolas was prince to this realm. The elf had thought him a servant, just like himself. But the messenger quickly corrected his expression, drawing his eyes down and shaking his head to denote the negative to the king's question. "Only the letter, my lord."

Thranduil had not even realized he had been holding his breath until he released it. Sighting a small stool on which to sit, he crossed over to it, dropping down and noting how weak he suddenly felt. He lowered his head into his open palms, needing a moment to let the wave of emotions ride over him.

It was so hard to do this alone and he longed then for the source of his power returned. Donning it, he would have felt the surge of renewed surety and strength. But since that day when he had used Legolas in the worst way possible with the drugging and failed union, he knew he dared not do that again. That power had been responsible for the betrayal Thranduil had pursued. It called to him now, begging him to go there again. He could not do that. He fought off the urge.

"Tell me Elrond's words," he said raggedly, not bothering to look up.

"A quest is in the making. Representatives from all the free peoples unite in this endeavor."

"What do they attempt?" Thranduil asked, glancing at the elf.

"I am not told, though Lord Elrond said I might tell you they set out to usurp that which empowers the Dark Lord," the messenger answered.

No other clue was needed than that. _The Ring!_ Thranduil's head shot up. _They have possession of It?_ He had been in the company of the creature, Gollum, and he knew about the precious thing the creature had once owned. And now, as Thranduil pieced the string of messages together he saw that Legolas allied himself with the one holding It. Grave danger indeed!

"Where do they go?" he asked, finding strength to rise and round on the messenger.

"I know not."

"Who is in the company?"

"I am not to say."

"How many do they take?"

"It was thought best I not know the full of their guild."

"Then what do you know?" Thranduil screamed, completely vexed and feeling certain Legolas was in danger just by keeping companionship with this group, whoever they were.

"I was told that I must assure you the company is strong. Lord Elrond begs you to have faith and to continue in your fight here. He says that the one who carries the greatest part of this task is one who is resistant to the will of Darkness. He will not be easily corrupted or go astray."

Thranduil grabbed the messenger by both arms. Beseechingly he said, "Tell me this one -- this one who carries the greatest part of the task -- is not an elf."

The messenger blinked at Thranduil as if not comprehending him. He did not speak.

Thranduil shook him. "Tell me it is not an elf that does this!" It was not beyond Legolas to volunteer for the hardest of tasks and he dreaded the notion that his son carried the most powerful Ring of all. Legolas was strong, but even he had his weaknesses. The One Ring would exploit him. It would destroy him.

Pity crept into the messenger's eyes, and Thranduil could tell he was not supposed to speak of such things. Yet with a soft voice the elf said, "It is not an elf."

Thranduil sighed, releasing the elf. He turned away. "Thank you," he said.

But still it hurt. Legolas was gone. He might well die. This was without doubt the most dangerous thing his son had ever undertaken. And there had not even been a farewell. No forgiveness had been granted nor would there be in this age. Thranduil's mistakes would remain as they were.

He turned and looked upon Legolas' space. His son truly had little. And yet the abode was rich for the spirit that lived within it. His son was pure of heart, and that was not something he had that Thranduil did not. His heart had been corrupted long ago and as a result, his son likely would never communicate with him again in this land. Their bond was severed and Thranduil would not know what came until war's end.

And all of this had come because he had served under Celeborn and Galadriel in Hollin.

He came back to himself then, standing in the middle of the path where he and Haldir had exchanged terse words and inflicted wounds. And he knew he was in a land where he felt little but contempt. If he wished it, he could trace his downfall starting with his associations made through and for his cousin. He had come under influence in Eregion -- Hollin -- and the blame lay with Celeborn and Galadriel -- Celeborn because he had left him susceptible to the will of his wife, and Galadriel... because she had used him. He regretted his time with them more than anything else in his life for that had been the beginning of his decline.

**TBC**


	26. Where Memory Takes You

**A/N:** Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews! They've made my week! And now, here's the next chapter. I'll keep putting out so long as the muses keep doing their jobs. Urge them on if you will; they love hearing from you too.

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Five: Where Memory Takes You_

As was usual, Thranduil took his place several steps behind his father. It was a position that was suited him, neither completely in the front of the gathering, nor so far away that the young elf could not participate and watch closely any presentation that might come. He preferred the part of listener and follower and he knew he was safe where he stood. Few ever spoke to those who took these middle-ranking posts. Yet his father wanted more of him, and dutifully he would try.

He put on an expressionless face doing his utmost to hide his nervousness as he followed his father. He knew that what he thought had no part in this moment. He had expressed his objections privately, and his opinion had been overruled. This was business. Had he more nerve he might have felt anger, but he choked that feeling into submission choosing obeisance over rebellion.

The many captains, Sindarin and Silvan both, had proclaimed their loyalty to his father. They followed on either side, as if skimming a path though an open channel. Thranduil watched them carefully as they stepped through the halls. The Sindarins were cool and assured, carrying an air as if they had seen the splendor of a Noldor palace before. The Silvans however were wide-eyed and nervous. Thranduil felt for them, feeling like them that he was completely removed from his home.

A page led them to a waiting hall, with a row of doors on either side. The expanse was open to the breeze off the hillsides. Twin courtyards lay beyond. Thranduil could not help but let his eyes wander to the vast landscape that lay beyond. All was golden and peach-toned in the city below, and the sun in its merry rise through the sky, kissed the valley with her warmth. He would rather he were out there than kept in these halls.

But then Thranduil's eyes were drawn away as two figures stepped forward from the shadows of the inner court, and it was like a beam of sunlight had fallen in on the room. He had to blink a moment before he realized the pair were elven, a male and female, for the light shone so brightly at first he could make out nothing but their glowing forms. Their countenance was equally as golden as that of the landscape out of doors. Thranduil's heart lurched, so struck was he by the light and golden beauty that came into his eyes.

And then he realized it was only one of the two who really had this quality of light, and he knew then he was looking upon one who had seen the two trees. Was this She? He felt shame, suddenly thinking himself unworthy to stand in the presence of one who carried such a bearing. This was Galadriel.

But before he could conceal his ineptitude with downcast eyes, Galadriel's attention came to him, and her smile was beautiful and simple in its sweet turn as she came to recognize his discomfiture and gave him a gaze that told him he need not be so awestruck. It was as if she was accustomed to such a response, and she was kind in her regard to him.

With her was the male, and Thranduil turned his gaze there, wondering if this was Celeborn, her husband, and his cousin. The lordly elf was radiant as well, silver to her gold, and his smile was equally as welcoming. Her light shone greatly, but it mattered little for it seemed to reflect onto him and embolden his appearance. Her ethereal beauty, in fact, seemed to grace everything about her -- the room, the light, her dress -- Thranduil wondered if he too looked resplendent in her company. He imagined he could grow besotted of her, and he could understand how she could have admirers from afar as well as those near. Indeed, Thranduil thought, even without knowing Celeborn, that his cousin was blessed with good fortune.

But then he realized in many ways that Celeborn was her equal. Here was an elf who was regal in his bearing, exuding an air of both fairness and bravery, and the young elf truly came to see why his father had felt it right to bring him here.

The elf lord stepped forth, tapping Oropher upon the shoulder, and for the first time Thranduil realized he was the only one among them who had forgotten to bow. His face blushed a deep red. He was mortified by the mistake.

Seemingly though, neither Celeborn nor Oropher made note of it though Thranduil saw Galadriel smile coyly in his direction, and his shame made him regret ever having come here.

Still, Thranduil's father chuckled in his glee as he spread his arms out to take in the equally delighted Celeborn. Both elves wore beaming smiles, and realizing that he was not going to be called out for his bad manners, Thranduil felt his lips curl in good cheer. He watched the two elves embrace in a fierce hug. Their arms tangled as they pulled away, their eyes happily taking in the vision of one another.

"I did not know you were coming until the page announced you!" Celeborn was exclaiming. "This is a delight!"

"I had not sent word ahead as we had left hastily. I apologize," Oropher replied.

"No need," Celeborn laughed. "This house is open to all. We would have it no other way. Valar be praised, I am pleased to see you. After all these years, I had thought you might have ceded to the deep places in your heart and journeyed the Straight Path."

Oropher nodded, as if agreeing with this assessment, and Thranduil was surprised by that admission. He had no idea the possibility had been considered. "I could not choose it, though it was in my heart for a time after Thingol's death. I did not yield. Instead I took to wandering, and only those dearest to me remained in my companionship. I am king of the Greenwood now."

To this Celeborn smiled as he reached for Galadriel's hand, squeezing it in his own. "I had heard. It does not surprise me; you were always so certain of yourself, and your ambitions were clear." Then the elf lord's eyes turned to light upon Thranduil then and the heat of a blush rose to the young elf's cheeks. "Is this then Thranduil? Ai, but he is nearly full made. I had only saw him in the days when he was but an infant. He grew so fast!"

Thranduil felt like an object under their scrutiny but he remained silent. For the pride of his father, he was determined to put his best foot forward.

"Faster than I should like, I fear. To me, he is still my young one. I doubt I will ever see him otherwise," Oropher admitted.

"He is a handsome lad," Celeborn said.

"I have been told that his appearance is unique, as if he were a child of the forest more than one sprung from the loins of noble Sindarin folk."

Celeborn smiled. "Beautiful child." He stroked Thranduil's cheek then gazed deeply his eyes. "Speak now, young cousin, what say you of yourself."

"My Lord," Thranduil said falling into a deep bow at last, hoping he might now make up his earlier error.

"Arise," Celeborn said, touching his shoulder softly, but Thranduil hesitated, fearful that he would not know what to say once he did so. He could feel Galadriel's gaze upon him and he feared she would point out his ill-bred qualities. Truly did he feel he was not fit to be in her presence. He felt a great need to escape just then. But he could not. "Tell us of your journey, Thranduil," Celeborn said smiling, urging the elf with his kind voice.

Thranduil could not bring his eyes to meet the elf lords. His voice caught in his throat. "I... it was...we ..." he stammered.

"It has been a long journey," Oropher excused and Thranduil ducked his head, embarrassed once again.

Celeborn seemed to dismiss such discomfiture as he said, "Come, let us be comfortable. We shall speak on the terrace."

The elf lord led his kin out a door on the left of the concourse while the page spoke softly to the guards. Thranduil overheard them being offered refreshment and rest. Thus, the foursome were left alone.

A stunning view of the city capturing all of the lands to the south was made visible to them. Thranduil's eyes immediately filled with the golden glimmer the stonework gave off. In the fire of the sun, Eregion was almost the hue of opals, radiant and rich with the gleam of its stone. Thranduil knew it was the unique color of the granite quarried in these hills that made it so vivid. He could not recall ever seeing such a prevalence of this rock and its color before. The amber tones of the cityscape were offset with the crisp touch of green, dark and lush, coming from the holly that grew so bountifully in these hills. Lighter verdant shades, the touch of spring color, meshed with them as gardens wove between the building structures. Here and there, rose-colored rooftops could be seen jutting out from the architecture, forming angles and peaks rising to the sky. White clematis, with blossoms as large as his hand, climbed the balcony rail. The air was fresh and tainted with the perfume of the plant, the scent like that of honey.

"Tell me of your wood," Celeborn asked Oropher once they had settled at a table and refreshments had been called for. " I would know of your adventures and more about your land."

The elf king smiled. "Lasgalen is a vast forest on the eastern shores of the Anduin and within it is a great population of Silvan folk. They live wildly for the most part without governing, culture or trade. But they allow me to build a home there and I have pledged to guide them where I will. I plan to model a kingdom for them much like Doriath."

"Have you a Maia like Melian with you to cast a spell over the lands and keep all hidden and safe?" Celeborn jested.

"A Maia is not an assurance that all will be well," Oropher replied more somberly, and with these words, Thranduil was reminded of his mother's death. She had been a lady's maid to the queen, and when Melian had lowered her guard over their lands, Doriath had become vulnerable. Thranduil's mother had been one of the first of the household slain by the dwarves when they came for the Silmaril. Apparently Celeborn realized this too, and his teasing demeanor immediately faded.

"I apologize, Oropher," he said, reaching a hand across the table between them. "I should have considered my words more carefully."

Galadriel spoke then, her voice melodious and sweet in contrast to the mood around them. "You should apologize to Thranduil as well, my love. Do not forget it was his loss too."

"Of course, you are right," Celeborn said as he touched her hand beside him. And then he directed his eyes to Thranduil. "I spoke without thinking. Forgive me."

"Your apology is not needed. My mother's death is past." Thranduil's voice rang out as he spoke for the first time. He was surprised at the firm sound of it, still wishing to please his father and thinking an appearance of confidence might do it.

Celeborn's brows lifted at the forthrightness in the elf's reply while Galadriel gave a distant smile. The elf lord answered, "And yet wounds remain. I only meant I would not mean to cause you more pain."

"The wound, though always there, has healed over. I can live with the memory," the young elf said.

"Do not forget either," Galadriel replied, "that a time will come when we are all reunited."

"That is what gives me strength," Oropher murmured, startling Thranduil with the pitiful note bared by the words.

This journey was revealing much about his father, and Thranduil found himself surprised once more by the confession. He did not like that he was only hearing them now in the company of distant kin. Masking the embarrassment he felt for his father's revelation, Thranduil said, "And yet remembering her too, is a strength, for she would not want us to fall into our sadness. She would want us to remember her and to find pleasure in those memories. She would say that the past cannot be erased, but becomes a part of us, and I have come to believe that is true."

The surprised gaze Oropher delivered to Thranduil then made the young elf cast his eyes down. He supposed his father must feel the same surprise for him.

Galadriel spoke then, directing her comments to her husband, and Thranduil admired her beauty and wisdom once again. "Celeborn, I am impressed with this young elf. He shows maturity that I would expect in one much older."

Oropher gave his son a knowing look, and Thranduil knew what was to be delivered then. "Thranduil, perhaps you would check on the guard and see that their needs are being met?" he asked. He turned to Celeborn as Thranduil rose from the table, "The Silvans among us will be unaccustomed to city life."

Thranduil bowed to the lord and lady as he backed away from their company. And though he stood in the hall, beyond their sight, he remained so that he might hear their conversation. He knew what his father might say next. He wanted to know if Celeborn and Galadriel would agree.

"I have reason to bring my son here," Oropher began.

"I have guessed your purpose."

"He could use some polish," Oropher replied, throwing his hands up in apology.

"Would that not be better done in his own home?" Celeborn asked.

"Indeed, if I thought I might teach him something, it would," came Oropher's reply, "but I am still working to control the realm and I have no time for his education too. Our numbers are so small and tutors for what I require of him are not among us. He has had the full of his primary learning, and he has taken military tactics training. He can fight, but he knows nothing of real world experience. He spends all his time in the trees and amongst the settlements of the simpler folk. In proper company he is as you see him now. His influences are of the wrong kind. He is learning nothing of running a kingdom."

Galadriel then spoke, "There is nothing wrong with quiet watching or the knowing of your people, but knowing the ways of politics and the courts is of equal importance." Thranduil felt his face redden even without being under her scrutiny. He was being critiqued, and he felt ashamed. He wondered if she knew he was there.

Turning to her husband she continued, "I think what Oropher wishes is that Thranduil might see how such positions are handled in other realms. Oropher has had the benefit of serving in Thingol's court, but Thranduil has no such benefit. He is young and in need of an outside influence."

"You believe we should keep him here?" Celeborn asked.

"It is what I came to ask of you," Oropher replied. "I feel it would be better that Thranduil learn more about diversity and fairness in rule. In Doriath, he was but a child. If he is to be a prince -- and he will be even if I must force the Silvans into civilized manner with my bare hands -- then I would want him to be equal in all his skills. His destiny requires high speech, good faith, resilience and will. These are qualities I do not believe he yet has."

Celeborn laughed, the sound one of flattered surprise. "You think we might do all that here, Oropher?"

"I long for it, Celeborn," Oropher confessed, and again Thranduil felt shame that he could not be everything his father wanted him to be.

"Did you not just tell me Araenil was leaving your staff to journey the path to Valinor?" Galadriel asked.

"So I did," the elf lord said, then nodded back to the passage where Thranduil stood hidden. "Call him back. I would speak to him."

The elf's father came to him. Their eyes met, and the young elf, though nervous, found he was still eager to please his elder, even if he felt shamed by his father's disappointment.

"Will you forgive me this?" the elder asked, and Thranduil glanced down, not sure what to say. Was it his to even question his fate? He felt torn not wishing to leave his father's realm but at the same time desiring nothing more than to be a greater part of the world. He had always obeyed his father.

He would not impede the plans set for him. He was duty bound to obey. He stepped around his father and back into the light. He could hear his father's steps behind him.

"Show me your eyes, young one," Celeborn commanded.

And so he did, Thranduil's eyes meeting the elder's. For a long minute, Celeborn gazed at the younger elf, and though the feeling was somewhat disconcerting at first, Thranduil found some comfort lay behind them, as if he need not fear, for the elf would not think little of him. He felt somehow that the elf lord had already read his soul and knew it to be good. And he felt glad to call this elf kin.

"Yes," the elder answered, "yes, I can see you would do well. You will need to learn to speak your mind if you are to take the position though. You would teach him this?" Celeborn asked, turning his eyes then to Galadriel.

She merely smiled in reply. Thranduil, realizing she would be his teacher, blushed. He already felt sure that he loved her.

------

From the moment they reached the plains she knew something had happened that affected their realm. She could sense it like one tastes rain in the air. The land told her, as did the wind.

"There is trouble," she whispered to Celeborn and he nodded. "Crimes of the past are haunting."

They no longer took steps at a leisurely pace.

She turned her gaze south. Her eyes scanned the landscape as the twilight fell over the plains. The ashy grasses of the Celebrant shone deep amber as the setting sun painted her last colors over the land. Galadriel breathed in the cool air of autumn, watching as the stars began to appear in the heaven skies overhead. She saw the star of Elendil, traveling as he always did across the sky, leading the way westward to any that might wish to journey there, and Galadriel knew soon she would follow. To journey...

She thought this might have been one of her last journeys in Arda. But now her heart told her she had further still to go. Not westward yet. There were responsibilities to this life and this place. The peace of Aman which she once loathed and now craved was not to be hers yet. She still had retribution to pay.

Galadriel's eyes fell upon the golden fields, and her memory drifted back to days past. So much had happened in her long life. What she sensed now was a return to something of the past. She could feel a corruption and darkness penetrating in ways that in days past might have gone unnoticed. With the purging of evil in the world, what was now exposed became brilliantly visible. Something had come forth. There was reason to return. And so they set out, traveling into the night, pushing homeward -- or what for now was homeward.

**TBC**


	27. Acquaintance

**A/N: **At last! I have to confess that I've been sitting on this chapter for several days now, fretting over whether or not it is worthy of release. I do this every time, praying that once I put it out there, my curtain won't be torn down to expose me for the fraud that I am. But I have to swallow my insecurity and just do it. I've certainly made those who are following this epic wait long enough. (I'm so sorry.)

The Part II section of the story is certainly not an easy one for me. It seems I've built a very complex tale here and it has been a bear to get all the pieces wrestled into some kind of a cohesive order. As it is, there are things I have planned out that may not even make it into the final cut. We'll have to see how it all develops.

Speaking of developments, a request was made the last time I put a chapter out (when was that again?) to clarify the shifts between present and past. I've decided to denote flashbacks with italic type. Hopefully this will help make the story easier to follow. Please let me know if not.

And now the story...**  
**

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Six: Acquaintance_

Thranduil had seen his entourage off, setting them on the road he could not take. Six there were that went out into different areas. Whereas he was trapped here to await the dwarf's awakening, his soldiers at least had opportunity to roam. They could venture while he could not. He wished he were among them though he refused to be separated from the truth of what had come of his son.

Some of Celeborn's scouts had returned with word from King Eomer of Rohan. The man sent response that the horse the dwarf had ridden was a gift of the Rohirrim to Legolas of Mirkwood, and that he and Gimli had last been seen en route to Fangorn Forest after parting his realm several weeks before. The king expressed concern over Legolas' disappearance and offered his aid should it be wanted. He promised also to pass this news on to the new Gondor king, Elessar. Thranduil was to be assured that between them no stone would be left unturned in all the reformed lands. Thranduil was now weighing this offer.

The news, however, was old news. Galadriel and Celeborn had returned just hours before the scout had arrived, thus supplying all of these tidings already. Two days more had now lapsed, and there had been little else learned. Though scouts of theirs had ventured to Fangorn, those that could enter were given news that the elf and dwarf had parted. No one had new information to bear. And so Thranduil's men were left to wander, searching for some kind of elusive clue.

It was frustrating and Thranduil's patience was running thin. All the elf could do was wait. And so he threw himself into the comfortable chair of his well-appointed room; he could not argue the luxury bestowed upon him. Yet what he wanted was only to leave this place. He had of course the desire to see to his son, but he also found he was plagued by bad memories in this realm. Though he had had little contact with Lothlorien over the years, he felt quite knowledgeable in the manner of the lord and lady's rule. His apprenticeship to them had lasted over a century and a half, and he had learned much of them both in that time. It was certainly long enough for any admiration he might have originally felt for them to slip away. But such was to be expected after what he had endured as a result of Galadriel's making.

xxxxxxxxx

_Thranduil had noticed the man the minute he stepped into the hall for it was not common for Men to appear in palace chambers; most requisitions from Men came at the behest of merchants and traders, and those duties were handled at the lower halls of the city. The palace dealt with issues of the realm and those in faraway lands, not common negotiations, as was the wont of their mortal friends. The appearance of a Man here told Thranduil this was not one of ordinary cause._

_But there was a second reason Thranduil noticed the man with such immediacy; it was because this human was so extraordinary in his appearance. The elf found himself actually gasping in wonder as he beheld the tall figure. He was not alone in this, and that was tribute to the magnificence of what he saw._

_Men's flesh gave off little light. Their eyes were not so bright, and their senses were not so keen as that of the Firstborn. Except for the very young, Thranduil had noticed that all mortals seemed to be in a perpetual state of fading. It was not an uncommon thought among elves, and one that caused sorrow to the open hearts of the Eldar race. But further, in the stealth of his own mind, Thranduil could add something of a personal prejudice to his opinions of men: they did not seem to consider their appearance very often. He had thought many times that they almost all had a somewhat bedraggled air about them._

_But not this one. This man shown brightly, with luminous eyes and hair that gleamed as if caught in the morning light. Were his skin not so darkened by the bronzing nature of the sun, Thranduil might have immediately mistaken him for an elf. The man was striking by any expression, and if words were put to such a being, majestic might be one of those._

_And as Thranduil had gulped on the sight of him, he realized the sound was echoed around him. The man was noticed by others too as he stepped into the hall. Thranduil's bench was one among many there, and secretaries and courtiers of all sorts congregated in this space. Though the noise in the room continued uninterrupted, onlookers from all sides made note of the man and Thranduil could hear quiet exclamations being whispered all around the place._

_The man did not travel alone. There was a small party of other humans with him, and though it was obvious the others had done their best to make themselves presentable for their appearance at the palace this day, they were dull and sloppy when held in comparison to this one._

_Thranduil watched as the human questioned the elf at the table nearest the door, and he saw the elf point further down the room in his direction. The man gazed at Thranduil and their eyes met. Glancing back to direct the others with him, he turned again toward the elf and began his walk to Thranduil's table._

_The man approached, and Thranduil turned to the elf that had been before him. Smiling and thanking Elamir for the small matter to which they had been attending, Thranduil turned his attention on the newcomer as he neared. The gesture was enough to effectively dismiss Elamir and glancing back again to the elf, it was clear he knew it so; Elamir blushed as he saw the mortal approach and immediately vacated the chair before Thranduil's desk._

_Thranduil gazed up and again his eyes met the mortal's. The man smiled at him then as if their prior eye contact made them already dear acquaintances. When he spoke Thranduil thought then that his voice was as rich as his appearance._

_"You are Secretary to the Lord?" he asked._

_Thranduil had never felt intimidated by mortals, but this one made his heart clutch within his chest. Still he found it within him to reply smoothly. "If you have talked to others in this court then you have been told that I am."_

_The man looked surprised at the no-nonsense answer, but he smiled as he said, "I am told I will not gain audience with the lord of this realm without your authority. Thus I am here to gain it."_

_Thranduil regarded the man cautiously. "I will tell you now before you even start your petition that Lord Celeborn does not participate in merchant matters. You would need to see Lord Her--"_

_The man did not let him complete his speech. "Oh no, nothing like that. I am no merchant, my friend."_

_Thranduil sat back in his seat and he looked to assess the man, as if he had not done so already. The human was striking and he could not help but judge based upon that merit. "No, I suppose you are not," he replied after a moment. "I will need to see your papers then, please," he said, his palm open to receive the required articles._

_"Your pardon, my lord?" the man asked, his expression one of confusion._

_"Your papers," Thranduil repeated. When the man merely shook his head, unable to deliver such documents, the elf explained, half-laughing, "Surely you do not expect me to grant you admission to a king without having papers to verify your identity."_

_The man's brows shot up. Shrugging his shoulders, he gave a most charming smile as he supplied, "I am known by repute. There are many who would serve as reference, if that is what you look for."_

_"It is," the elf affirmed. "I would not think it odd to ask that you would have these things in written form."_

_The man smiled sheepishly but he was beguiling in doing so. "No one has ever asked such a thing of me before."_

_Now it was Thranduil's turn to raise his brow. Truly laughing, he dismissed, "It is very apparent you have done little travel into elven realms, but I expect you have talents if you have wandered this far into the palace and have not been asked yet for papers."_

_"I think my talents will become apparent to you soon enough, penneth" --'young one' he had said, and he done so in the Sindarin tongue -- "I have traveled vastly, though it is true I have had little contact with elf-folk as of yet. I expect that will change. Men know me well, if that holds any comfort to your masters. I could name some if it helps."_

_"Men's concerns mean little to this court," Thranduil sniffed, not sure how he should feel about being called out as young to this Man._

_"Even if the concerns are of the Numenoreans?" the mortal asked with the utmost sincerity though Thranduil could tell he checked his smile. It appeared that he knew indeed they did matter. The Numenoreans were seen altogether as a completely different race in the eyes of the elves and in attaching himself to them, this man gained a new status. And now that he had said it, Thranduil could see this man had many of the traits of the Numenoreans. If this were a new card he was playing, it was cleverly disguised._

_"What is your name, sir?" Thranduil asked as he indicated the chair before him, his attention regained._

_"I am called Annatar," the man said, and his smile was most beatific -- to the point that the elf found himself wavering under the radiance of it._

_"Lord of Gifts?" Thranduil translated, realizing himself._

_The man shrugged as if he could not help how he was known. He took the offered seat while his attendants remained standing behind him._

_Pursing his lips as if he were unsure he believed this, Thranduil continued, "And your purpose?"_

_Annatar nodded. "I am an emissary sent to procure an agreement between our realms."_

_Cautiously Thranduil pursued. "An agreement to do what?" he asked._

_The man paused, the smile on his face slipping a bit. "Trade goods."_

_A frustrated sigh spilled from Thranduil before he could catch it. "Merchant affairs." He shook his head in disappointment. "As I said before, you need to take those up in the lower courts. You will need to see Lord--"_

_Annatar cut him off, "Please. What I offer is not mere baubles and stores. What I have is more valuable than that... plans for this growing world... means to contain and preserve Arda, even as it changes and evolves with the burgeoning life that abounds here. Your lord will be quite pleased for I have connections that can be of great benefit, I promise you."_

_Thranduil continued to shake his head now that the deception had been revealed. "You are not the first to try to trick your way into the court halls."_

_"I do not try to 'trick'."_

_A small smile flitted at the corners of Thranduil's mouth. "You offer no papers; I should not give you a moment's breath. Yet you claim to be Numenorean, and by appearance I might be swayed. You are a peddler though, and were I to allow you admittance my position would next be questioned."_

_"Given your age though, I expect mistakes do occur. Surely the lord and lady are forgiving of your inexperience," Annatar casually rejoined._

_Thranduil felt his nostrils flare and his ire rise. When he had first come to Eregion he had experienced much criticism regarding his age, but he had long proven himself among the elves of the court. To have a Man say this to him was both a curious and infuriating thing. Granted, elves looked eternally young, yet if this mortal knew anything of the Firstborn, he would realize judging outwardly was a mistake. "You insult me, Sir!" Thranduil countered._

_"Not at all!" Annatar returned. "I would think your lord knows how he represents his gate. You are not to be blamed. You are young! That in itself is an excuse."_

_The elf stood but he kept his voice low so as not to cause attention. "I would ask that you leave now."_

_"You take insult? But it is the truth, is it not?"_

_"I reached my majority ere you were born, Mortal!" Thranduil snapped._

_And the man laughed, a low chuckle at first but it quickly became a strong rumble. Thranduil felt his face redden and he suddenly realized how this scene must look to any that might be watching. And he knew many were. He sat quickly, returning to the same eye level as the man. He glanced from side to side to see if others had noticed them. Out of courtesy or perhaps because he knew he held the upper position in their discourse, Annatar's laughter subsided. He placed an elbow on the desk and leaned in toward the elf. "You think I do not realize what your age might be, but I can judge it based upon the simplicity of your appearance. You clearly have little experience."_

_"More so than you, I think," Thranduil murmured darkly though strangely he did not feel all that insulted. In fact, he was somewhat curious -- charmed even._

_"You might want to consider my age again. I am older than you, I think," Annatar said, sitting back in his seat._

_Thranduil scrutinized the face before him. He had met mortals before and knew their lifespans were short. Just here in Eregion, with the human traders and merchants who lived on the outer fringes of the city, he had witnessed births, deaths, and generations carried on, all in a short century of passing. With Annatar he saw the beginnings of lines start forming around the eyes; at the temples and beard he saw a few flecks of gray. His experience of normal mortal aging told him this man was just shy of mid-life. Given that he proclaimed himself a Numenorean, Thranduil doubled what a common man's age might have been, and then added a few more years to that for good measure. The elf was still the elder. "I would venture your age to be somewhere around the century mark. That makes you young enough that I might call you child," the elf said, digging in with the last word._

_Annatar smiled, again laughing lightly as he said, "Then you venture wrong. Double that number again and add another half therein; you will be closer with that."_

_The math was quick. "Two hundred and fifty?" Thranduil asked aghast._

_"Two hundred and fifty-six to be most accurate."_

_"But I am not at that age yet," Thranduil stammered._

_"As I said. That makes me your elder," the man said, and he winked at Thranduil._

_"I think not!" the elf balked. But a moment later, with the deadpan earnestness of the man, he had no choice but to laugh. Their argument was ridiculous even if he remained caught in disbelief._

_"So you see," Annatar said, appreciating the elf's laughter. "Now I will be spared some falsehood you likely were going to regale me with about elves being the superior in wisdom and deed," Annatar teased. "I out-age you; therefore it is possible I might be wiser than you."_

_Thranduil leaned back in his seat, a smile playing over his lips. He was enjoying the challenge of this debate. It felt like the kind of conversation he might have with a peer, "I doubt that. The Firstborn are gifted in wisdoms that Mortals shall never know."_

_"Ah, but there it is despite my protest." Annatar waved the elf's comment away. "If you mean hearing the song of the trees, or all that 'Great Music of the Ainar' rubbish, you would be right. But -- you will pardon my expression here -- what pittance is that in the grand commerce of Life?" Now his eyes made an assessment of Thranduil as he continued, pointing out what he saw in a jovial manner, so much so that it made it impossible for Thranduil to really feel outrage. "Wisdom of the elves... Yet you are an elf and I can simply see that you are not so wise."_

_Thranduil knew when he was being baited, but he truly did not mind. There was something in this man that was endearing, and he did not mind the critique he knew was coming. "Tell me then," he urged, "where do I fail?"_

_"Truly you wish to know?"_

_"Truly," Thranduil rejoined for in his mind he remained the superior between them even if he was the one being belittled. It did not hurt that the man was so striking as to make being before him a pleasure in itself. His appearance made it easier to accept what was being said and Thranduil thought, for some, the man could completely impugn their character but if he did so with a smile they might never have minded._

_"Very well. Then I would say to you that if you are so wise, why is it you carry a poor weapon, wear jewels that are of low grade, or don finery of a lesser station?" the Man asked, his eyes pointing out each of these upon Thranduil's very being._

_Thranduil looked at his dull-edged dagger at his belt, at the rings on his fingers, and then at the threads pulling from his robe's sleeve. He realized Annatar was right, and like the man before when Thranduil had questioned his name, the elf could only shrug in reply._

_The man continued, not really waiting for Thranduil's reply. "You are unlearned in these crafts, and that is a shame, for my impression puts a great pall over the respect I might feel for your Master -- though I do not blame you personally," he added with a lopsided grin that was humorous to behold._

_Thranduil knew he could take insult, but he chose not to. Instead he returned the barb. "And for you, Sir, I would say the company you keep does not meet the standards you seem to expect of my lord." He had said this in Sindarin, and though he felt fairly sure Annatar understood him, the bored expressions of the man's companions proved they did not. That only affirmed what he was saying._

_Annatar blinked and then suddenly barked out a laugh, obviously not put off by this comment as he glanced at his companions. "Aye, but I agree!"_

_He jumped to his feet. "Well met, my friend! Well met!" He held out his arms and, without asking, reached across the table and clasped forearms with the young elf._

_"I am Thranduil," the prince suddenly said, laughing and feeling compelled to say something after being handled so familiarly._

_The man's laughter abruptly stopped and he drew back. "Thranduil? Prince Thranduil Oropherion?" the man asked. Without further words he swept into a deep bow. "My lord! It is an honor..."_

_Taken at complete surprise, Thranduil realized he had the attention of all eyes in the room again. He really did not care to make a spectacle of himself. "No, please," he remonstrated, "that is not necessary!" He had not thought his princely status meant anything here, and he was suddenly embarrassed by the attention it was bringing him._

_"I was brash -- arrogant even! Forgive me!" Annatar was saying despite the elf's protest._

_"Please!" Thranduil hissed, waving the man back into his seat. "No more. I am nothing special here." In all honesty, he could not imagine how the man even knew of him, let alone would think him deserving of such respects._

_"But I know of your father," Annatar said. "He was a legend in the courts of Doriath."_

_Thranduil's brow furrowed. Though Thranduil did not know the full of his father's life and he had been quite young when the former kingdom had fallen, to the best of his knowledge, his father had served no higher rank than Thranduil was serving now. That the elf now ruled a realm of his own certainly said something of the ambitions of Oropher. Of course, he had had vision enough to travel to the forests of Greenwood, but there had been no guarantee he would achieve success there._

_"I think you mistake him for another," Thranduil replied, still in disbelief._

_"Nay, I do not! Your father and mine met under the same circumstances as you and I do now! It is an irony that we should meet as such. Is he here?" the man asked excitedly. "Is he here in Hollin? I would meet with him if I could. I am sure he would want to know what became of my sire. I have much I would say to him."_

_Still with mouth gaping, Thranduil shook his head. "My father is now the ruler of Greenwood the Great on the other side of the mountains and north over the River Anduin. He is not here."_

_"Alas! For where I lack the papers you require, he could speak on my behalf. Or at least he could speak on my father's behalf, It should be the same, do you not think? My father and I were assigned the same career."_

_"As it seems so happened between my father and I," the elf laughed, not sure if he could believe the coincidence of their situation._

_"It does not help though," Annatar sighed. "Were that good King Oropher was present, for my mission could be expedited that much faster. It may take months, even years, for me to procure the papers you require. And what news I might give your lord and lady may not hold that long."_

_Thranduil watched as it appeared an idea washed over the mortal's handsome features. "It might be just as quick to write your father. Might I? I know he will remember my father, and if so, he would vouch for me. Would that do?"_

_"Are you so desperate as that?" Thranduil asked._

_"More so," Annatar replied. "Know you when a courier might be going next to your father's realm?"_

_And with that, Thranduil sighed. If this man was going to use his father as a means to vouchsafe his reputation, he might indeed have reason to believe he was as he said he was. What would his father say if he learned Thranduil had doubted the son of a friend?_

_"Come with me," he said, suddenly making a decision and grabbing the man. Annatar allowed himself to be led, and the two men who were his companions began to follow. But Thranduil swiftly turned to them and said, "No, not you."_

_A quick gaze from Annatar confirmed this command and they turned away. Thranduil continued to march the man down the hall that lead to the court. "I know not why I do this," he was muttering to himself, but still his steps carried them. "I should be questioning you for the next many hours in learning what you would ask my lord."_

_And then they stood before the doors and the page was there. Quickly the court elf jotted the notes of announcement onto a piece of parchment. This would be used to call the man into the court. "Do not make me regret this," Thranduil told Annatar, but already he knew the meeting would fail. The requirements of this court had not been met. Celeborn would dismiss Annatar after only a few minutes and Thranduil would have to answer for the mistake. Yet oddly, he did not care. That seemed strange to the elf, for there was nothing that mattered to him so much as pleasing his masters. Still, it felt surprisingly refreshing to go against the rules of his cousin's court. It was the first time he had ever done anything like it._

_The man gazed at the doors. For a sudden moment he looked unnerved, caught up in trepidation, anticipation, and... something else that the elf for a brief instant thought looked like longing, though it flitted away in the blink of an eye. "She is in there," Annatar said._

_Thranduil knew that he spoke of Galadriel, and he could not deny it. How Annatar could discern this through a closed door, he did not ask. All he could say was that there were times when the lady played an equal role in governance, and Annatar had come on a day when she took a leading position. "Galadriel is there," he confirmed._

_The man swallowed this news, and if anything that action made him even more likeable. But then he nodded as if accepting it. Thranduil watched as his brow smoothed and confidence worked over his features. He was impressed. The world of feeling the man had just lived was put aside instantly. As if nothing had bothered him just a moment earlier, Annatar asked. "May I come see you again?"_

_Thranduil paused for a long moment, staring. Whereas the man had no doubts, the elf suddenly had many. "Is it because I am the son of Oropher?" he asked feeling all his old uncertainties bubble forth._

_Annatar shook his head, his expression earnest. "Nay! I would just know you. There is nothing more to it than that. I feel a connection between us."_

_Thranduil studied the man. Indeed there was something very likeable about this person. He did not need to befriend Annatar. Thranduil had companions in this realm, and it was not as if he was lonely. Yet he would also admit that there were none that he had felt such an instantaneous bond._

_"I... I..." He did not know why he was so uncertain as to simply say yes. It was only a word and he wanted to use it. Still, he felt like he was doing something wrong in affirming this._

_Strangely Annatar seemed to understand his hesitancy. He placed a hand on Thranduil's shoulder, squeezing. "Nay! Worry not. I would not press you." He locked eyes with the elf, blue to blue, and with sincerity he said, "I thank you for this. I will find a way to repay you."_

_Thranduil was about to say that he should not bother, he wanted their friendship, but just then the page called Annatar's name and the man turned away and walked into the court leaving the elf alone._

_xxxxxxxxx_

_When the lady found him he was in the garden. He had found no solace in this place and his heart was yet sinking with his remorse. Disappointing the lord and lady were the least of his intentions, and he truly wished he could step backwards in time to make it right. They were the ones he looked up to the most._

_"Will he forgive me?" he asked the fair lady, remembering the belittling he had endured at the lash of Celeborn's tongue._

_"He is not angry with you," she answered._

_"I am a fool for I thought sure he was," Thranduil replied with bitter sarcasm._

_Galadriel patted his hand. "All is forgiven of you, Thranduil. Have no worries." They sat like that for a few minutes. At first it seemed fine to have her comfort, but after a minute of mute silence, he realized he was uncomfortable in her presence. He was always uncomfortable in her presence though in his heart he longed for nothing else but long spells of nothing but her presence. Yet he twitched under her scrutiny, feeling compelled to do something. Indeed he realized she was waiting for his notice._

_"What is it you want of me?" he asked._

_She answered coolly, "Seduce him."_

_He knew not how to reply to that, for these were shocking words! He would have never have expected them from her!_

_It seemed she knew his thoughts for she laughed, the sound like the tinkle of bells. He felt his face redden. He was uncertain if she was making a joke of him or if she merely tried to ease his confusion. But then she spoke before he could. "Oh, not like that, dear one. You are too tender for something so dire as to truly do such a thing."_

_He felt pitifully small then, as if he were but a child still. She did not think him capable of heartier feelings and the hurt of that thought stung. Still, she was speaking and he felt compelled by her voice to listen, despite the misery her words might cause him. She mesmerized him, despite himself. "No, I simply mean that you should use your charms to draw him near." And to that she again touched him and warmth moved over his skin._

_"My lady?" he stammered, unsure what else to say._

_"I would learn more of him if I may, and I suspect he has already tried to befriend you. So do this. And then tell me what he is like when he is not attempting admittance to the court. Get to know him as I cannot." Her voice was so nonchalant and casual in this request that it was as if she had merely asked him to go pluck a flower from the gardens about them._

_"But," Thranduil had to consider for a moment that he had not accepted Annatar's gesture of greater acquaintance though he supposed he might change that. "What is it you would want to know of him?" he asked._

_"Anything you might learn."_

_Thranduil closed his eyes, trying to clear the heat within his heart so that he might truly understand this. Perhaps she was asking that he seduce the man?_

_Galadriel seemed to recognize his confusion, and she pulled his two hands into her own, forcing him to gaze into her sparkling eyes. "I suppose I should explain that I have dreamt of this day. I knew he was coming here, and I know more of him than I can say. But his full intent? That I do not know. He has a purpose here in Eregion. He wants something of me -- us -- of all of us, Thranduil -- I cannot discern its meaning."_

_A confession? Was she confiding in him?It was a first if true, and it was a change in their relations. "I do not understand. You have denied him --"_

_"Let him think he has taken your friendship as his own and have him show you what is in his heart. Once done you will then tell me so I might know how to safeguard us."_

_His mouth was dry and he could not think clearly. "Forgive me if my questions slow, but you mean for me to spy?" he started. "What is it you think him capable?"_

_"Make no mistakes, Thranduil, This much I can say: Annatar comes seeking power. Why and how he intends to do this I have not uncovered, but with your help I will."_

_He could not understand what was happening or why all seemed to be happening at once. His life had been uneventful up to this point, and in one day he had disobeyed everything he knew he should not, trusted a complete stranger, likely had been duped into believing this man had a kinship with him through his father, and now was being told he should do it again at the bequest of the woman he admired and longed more than all else to please. Was this a dream? Could he do anything other than question her request? "Celeborn says I should not permit him admission, even into the anteroom chambers."_

_She barely took a breath before answering. "Celeborn only says this so as to make Annatar think he has been dismissed. And he has been dismissed --from the courts -- but Celeborn and I would know more of what he thinks. He is dangerous and we would know his plans before we dismiss him from the city entirely."_

_"But I do not understand why you think him dangerous," Thranduil protested._

_"You were not present in the court, penneth." There again, that word. But he did not have time to dwell there for her eyes fixed on him and he felt his heart skip a beat. "And you do not know what has been in my thoughts."_

_"Yet you propose to learn of his dangers through me?" Thranduil asked swallowing hard._

_"Through you... and with the help of others. I will have other agents helping me too. For your part I would have you introduce the man as you would any friend. Let him meet those to whom you are on good terms. Let him show you who he is and we will see how he tries to weave his way upward," she said._

_He was not sure how he felt about this. Nay, that was not true. He did know how he felt; he did not want to do it. But she gave him one of her beguiling smiles and she caressed his cheek. Her eyes fixed upon his and he felt his resolve weakening. How did she manage to do this to him? When she gave him that look he knew he was helpless to refuse. This was her way. When she used her charms he could not say no to anything she wanted._

_Yet his doubts were great. "Why would you think me capable of such a thing? Your husband finds me lacking. Why not you?"_

_"You are quite able, Thranduil," she replied, reaching out a hand to him. "You have been a splendid aide and I know you will not disappoint me."_

_Those words did much to embolden him. And then as if to seal the arrangement, she bent forward, and before he could think more, she kissed him fully on the lips._

_His reaction, and hers, startled him. His heart was beating rapidly and his breath quickened. It was the second time in that day that he had been moved by things he could not understand. But he was thrilled and he could not control his excitement. Allowing his lips to part, he kissed her back. And to his surprise, she did not pull away but deepened the kiss pressing more fully into his desire. And because of that he was helpless. He was hers to command in any way she wished._

**TBC**


	28. Seduction

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Seduction_

_Thranduil s__ought out Annatar the next day, confused and lost. __He was d__oing as Galadriel had requested. Or was he? A__ part of him pursued because he wanted it and he told himself he would__ do so__ whether she had asked it of him or not. __But another part of him knew he did this to please her, because he did not know where his loyalty was, because he needed someone to believe in. And if not her, then who?_

_It did not take long to locate the inn where Annatar was staying; Thranduil chose from the handful of quality establishments in the city and found the man at the second he looked to. _

_Although he could predict the type of accommoda__tions the man would choose, he did not expect to find Annatar with quite such a following. As he came to the rooms, he heard sounds of activity and merriment from within, and for a moment Thranduil considered turning away. He was not prepared to meet the man among a full contingent of devotees. Yet he pushed on, knocking at the door lightly, verily uncertain of himself, but knocking all the same. _

_Annatar, not another, answered the rap, and this too surprised the elf. Though the man met his eyes and smiled__ to see Thr__anduil, the elf couldn't help but__ gaze at the room beyond to wonder that a servant had not come forward instead. He saw that fellows of all kinds surrounded the man. Elves, men, women, even dwarves were crammed into the suite of rooms. It was a scene of great amusement with music and laughter coming from all sides._

_A hand clutched him beneath the arm and he was pressed into an embrace. Annatar laughed softly into his ear, the strength of his arms comforting about Thranduil, "I am glad you are her__e," the man said, his breath tickling the back of the elf's neck._

_And then he was released but pulled into the room before he knew it. "I --" he began, but truly he did not know what he meant to say._

"_You came," Annatar said, beaming. "I had hoped you wo__uld." He turned away and Thranduil realized he didn't need to offer his reasons for coming to the man. "Let me introduce you around."_

_Thranduil was led around the room, and though he knew none in the place at that time, Annatar seemed intimate with them a__ll. The elf felt a small bit of wariness and jealousy for the man's popularity. Yet he stayed, quietly taking a place among the commotion._

_After an hour or so of this, Thranduil began to wonder if he should even be there. This was not what he had expected__ to find in meeting the man, and he had yet to have a moment of Annatar's time._

_As if reading these thoughts, one of the more boisterous men in the room jumped to his feet and said, "Refreshments! Let us take this to the ale house downstairs." And with th__at many others echoed the sentiment._

_Annatar replied, "Nay, not I. Go without me and make up for my absence. Perhaps I will join you later."_

_Thranduil began to rise, exiting with everyone else, for he felt Annatar's excuse one that kindly asked for peace__. He was wrong. Again Annatar hooked him about the arm and whispered into his ear, "Nay, not you, my friend. Stay with me."_

_And so he did. _

_When the room was cleared he smiled once again, and it occurred to Thranduil that __the man smiled a great deal. It was one of his most beautiful features.__ "What brings you to me, Thranduil?" the man asked with disarming charm. Thranduil almost did not notice this was the question he had dread__ed upon meeting up again.and thus __he did not hesitate in his answer._

"_You hav__e seen through me. You spoke of my age as if it were apparent, and then you told me you realized it because of my knowledge. I would have you teach me these things the lord and lady do not. Finery and weapons and jewelcraft, as you say. Even if they do not put high credence to these things, I __think I __do."_

_Annatar laughed as he lowered __his well-formed frame __into a chair. There was nothing assuming in the way he did this as he then he grew somber, nodding his approval. "You see the need for these things and I am sure your father will too when you return to him in a few years." _

_It would be many years later before Thranduil would even think to wonder that Annatar might know he was only temporarily removed from his father's realm. He did not think on it as he said, "When might we begin?"_

"_We already do, for I see you have removed the tawdry stones from your hands," Annatar said though his eyes did not stray from Thranduil. _

_But that was the way of Annatar. He would come to learn that the man said and did many things that made it clear he __knew more than what he spoke wh__ile making those around him feel__ at ease. They never questioned how he knew any of what he did and neither did Thranduil._

xxxxxxx

_Their play was innocent and jovial though Thranduil felt he was an inept pupil. _

"_Between th__ese three gems, which would be the one most desired?"_

_Thranduil thought to say the one that enchanted its would-be possessor the most, but he knew that was not the correct answer._

"_The blue one?" he guessed. _

_Annatar shook his head but smiled. "You real__ly have no talent for this," he laughed. As many times as they had done this, he never seemed to grow weary of his slow student. He looked the elf in the eye and prompted, "Remember what I was saying about a stone's clarity...?"_

"_The gold one!" Thranduil __exclaimed now pointing at the stone that met this description._

"_Correct," said the man, but then he let a new stone fall from his bag onto the piece of black cloth. It was far smaller in size and had no color at all. "Yet were you to choose between these __two, which would have the greater value?"_

_Thranduil's brows drew together as he studied the two stones. He personally preferred the stone of color more, but he guessed the white stone to be the better quality, despite its size, simply because it seemed th__e kind of question Annatar would use to try to fool him. Knowing that the next question would be one where his reason was validated, Thranduil struggled. _

"_The white one," he drawled, his answer rife with uncertainty._

_And just as he knew it would come, "__Why?"_

"_Because it... is the harder of the two and shows more clarity?"_

_Annatar picked up the amber gem yet again. "This one is the more valuable."_

"_But..." Thranduil began to protest._

"_It is nearly the size of a robin's egg compared to that little spe__ck!" he pointed at the white stone. "Could you not guess it's worth based upon that?" _

_Thranduil shook his head. "I will never learn this."_

_But Annatar clapped him on the back and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Nonsense! I have yet to fail a student. Besi__des, you now know the difference between silk and satin and quality threadwork versus cheap embroidery. It is progress. Let us go out and celebrate what you do know."_

_Thranduil ceded, but he hung his head as he companionably lamented, "And it has only tak__en me a month to progress this far."_

_The man nudged him as they started packed up the materials and stones. "What is your rush, penneth?" he teased._

_Thranduil smiled. He realized there was none._

xxxxxxxx_  
_

"_What do you mean you know nothing else?" Gala__driel asked. She was__ beautiful in the warm morning light of her sitting room, but her gaze was cold. It had been months and months that he had been coming to her like this, having only little to report. More and more of late she looked at him this way, as if he was not worthy her gaze. He could not help but feel that he disappointed her and that made his heart ache. At the same time, he could not alter facts. He had reported everything he knew of Annatar and it seemed not enough._

"_Our activities have be__en the same, and our conversations do not vary much. He teaches me, and I attempt to learn," Thranduil replied, his voice almost a plea._

"_Does he not question you about the actions of the court? He knows you attend, does he not?" _

"_He knows but he does n__ot ask me, nor do I volunteer anything of it to him. He seems to respect my position. He asks nothing of me," Thranduil defended but he felt as if he were silently asking forgiveness of her at the same time._

"_Does he ask of me__?" she asked. She asked this every time and always seemed disappointed when Thranduil delivered the same answer._

"_Not a word, Lady."_

_Her mouth tightened into a straight line but she immediately moved on. "What of introductions?" she asked. "Does he expect anything of you by mea__ns of contacts?"_

"_I have introduced him to everyone you have suggested, But it seems he already knows more people than I do."_

"_Does he ask you to introduce him to those higher up?" she asked. There was an edge of desperation to her voice._

"_He does not."_

"_He must want something. If he were truly close to you he would confess his plans." She grew silent and her eyes turned away. She said no words, but in his mind Thranduil felt he could supply the reprimand she might offer were she to speak._"I do not think you try hard enough to know his thoughts. Were you closer..."

_Thranduil closed his eyes. He had disappointed her; it was the last thing he wanted. He gazed up as she sank disconsolately into a chair, and the urge to aid her took over as he took steps __to her side. "Forgive me," he begged, reaching out for her hands as he dropped to his knees before her._

_From eyes dipped to the ground, her ga__ze shifted, and she looked at__ him. A timid smile slowly whispered over her lips and her eyes grew tender and knowing. Gentle fingers brushed his cheek and Thranduil felt his face burn as she looked upon him. He did not pull away, holding her to him though he felt unworthy of her attention. Still, he desired only to please her, and so he whispered, "I shall try harder." _

_And he meant it. Though coming into this meeting he had doubted her mission and stood wholly on his friendship with Annatar, now he wanted only to fulfill the goals she set, even if he could not conceive a means to achieve them. _

"_Do you love me,__ Thranduil?" she asked and the elf's heart leapt._

_Of course he loved her!__ He had loved her from the __first__moment he had set eyes on her. In knowing her, he could not help but feel this even deeper, even greater, for she was always kind to him, always a champion to his failings. Yet he had no means of answering the question for nothing he might say would make it come out the way he felt it. "My lady," he whispered and he could feel his cheeks flush._

"_Nay, you need not answer. I see your heart," she said, and her__ voice was now as serene as her smile was gentle. She clutched his hand as she rose, and he began to __rise__as well__ yet she pressed him back to his kneeling stance. _

_Thranduil dipped his gaze, not sure what her intent was. She released his hands and came to stan__d behind him. "You are a gentle soul, Thranduil. I ask things of you that go beyond your nature though shadow does exist within you."_

"_My lady?" he questioned not knowing what she was implying. He could not see her face any longer, and knowing her gesture__s and expressions had always been a clear means of understanding what she requested of him._

"_Do you recall what I asked of you when we first met to discuss Annatar?"_

_His face was still flushed as he started to turn his head so that he might see her. Look__ing at her would tell him if what he guessed she wanted was correct. But she would not allow his gaze. Her hands came to either side of his face and without force she turned him to look forward. Again stammering, he replied, "You-- you said I should seduce him."_

"_I should not have said such a thing to you. It was a poor means of expressing what I wanted of you."_

_He was still confused. "If it was not what you meant to say, what indeed is it you wish?"_

_He sensed that she had stepped away though her footste__ps were silent. It was when her voice reached him from across the room that he knew he had been correct. Still, it startled him to hear her voice so far away. "There i__s no other word for what I mean.__ I suppose I wish that you might find means to fulfill this request without sacrificing something of yourself and giving up that which is not in your nature."_

_His brow crushed with the confusion that filled his mind. "I-- I do not understand," for truly he did not. _

_She was suddenly behind him again, now kneel__ing, and he gasped as her hands came again upon his cheeks, her face very near. He could feel her breath upon his ear. "You must look into yourself and see what it is you find appropriate."_

"_I know not what else I might--" he protested, but she stopped hi__m with her own words._

_Her breath was hot i__n his ear. "You_ do_know. You know, just the same as I know my name is what you utter on the cusp of your dreams." _

_He gasped, feeling exposed by the utterance of this most secret truth. She knew, and he bowed his__ head in shame. He was mortified that she realized how he spent his private hours when sleep would not capture him. And this utterance suggested more of him than he had ever thought to reveal. She knew what he was capable of and she knew how great his desires could be. She was telling him to use this as impetus in his actions. She was telling him he had it in him to do what she wanted of him. She had not said it, but he knew what she expected of him. _

_She stood, her hand now on his shoulder, and he felt th__e warmth of her skin beneath his robes. She said nothing else, only letting her hand linger for a moment. And then she stepped away, parting the room, and he was left, panting and desperate. _

_His heart beat a loud tattoo in his chest while his throat constricted tightly. He found it hard to speak._

xxxxxxxx

"_Come, my friend," Annatar greeted him at the door upon their next meeting. The man reached forward, putting a hand around Thranduil's shoulder drawing him into the room. The contact made the elf shiver._

"_What is it?" the man asked, noticing the elf's anxiety but Thranduil found he had no words to answer. _

_He turned to face his friend, trying to draw upon all the thoughts that had fortified him in his preparations to come. Annatar was attractive enough, but now that he stood before him, Thranduil found it almost impossible to put those physical traits toward something that might arouse his dark side. She had said he had a shadow-self, but it was not surfacing at this moment. _

"_Thranduil?" the golden man asked, and the elf emitted a queer-sounding gasp. Annatar gazed at him with those startling eyes and for a brief second the elf froze, lost in the depths of them. _

_There was beauty here, and the want did exist, albeit only brought to mind by the suggestion she had put to him, but he knew it was within him to do this if he so chose. He reached up and brushed the back of his hand to the man's cheek. The gesture spoke his thoughts and Annatar's face grew sober, realizing the meaning of Thranduil's actions._

"_You do not mean it," the man said, but he did not push the hand away. Instead he allowed Thranduil to run his thumb over his lips. The elf's b__reath broke out in a shaky rasp__ as his touch progressed though he still did not speak. _

_Annatar reached up and he caught the elf's hand in his own. His flesh was warm and, where Thranduil was quaking in general fear, he was steady. "You do not mean it," he repeated._

_And yet something in Thranduil was urging him on. He had not been rebuffed, and he took courage in that. Annatar was a handsome man, and his earlier imaginings started to play upon his mind as the man's features softened even more. If he were to do this, it would be best if he hesitated no further. _

_One hand already held by Annatar, Thranduil quickly reached again for the man, looping his other arm around the man's neck. Without preamble or argument to come, he pulled Annatar to him, pressing his lips to the other, taking without asking._

_It was a heated gesture, and he almost found himself caught in it, wanting. Such was the way with elves. His emotions could get the better of him and he could find the passion within. That is what she had meant after all. And he could have seen it through; he could have completed the exercise. If only Annatar had not resisted._

_Thranduil was pushed away with an angry shove. Annatar raised his ha__n__d as if to strike, and where the gaze had been one of curious allure a moment before, it now was of breathless fury. _

_Knowing he would be pummeled with the fists of an enraged man if he did not back away, Thranduil raised his own hands in supplication and surrender. "Nay, please," he pled._

"_You do not mean it!" the man shouted. And then in a surprise move, he pulled Thranduil to him in a violent imitation of the elf's awkward advance. Thranduil's one hand, held tightly at the wrist, was gripped in a pinching constraint. Annatar's other hand pressed Thranduil's head forward, and the elf was forced into an open-mouthed kiss that felt more like he was being consumed than plied. It was unexpected and it hurt and Thranduil was struck by a sudden wave of panic and the need for flight. He reacted without thinking, striking out. He fought his trapped hand away and used the other to cuff the man's face from his. He did not consider his actions, but they were effective. Annatar took a step away, blood suddenly appearing at the corner of his mouth. _

_The elf was at a complete loss for what to say or think. He trembled and stared while the man wiped the smear with the back of his hand. He looked down on the blood, shaking his head while Thranduil emptily murmured, "I am sorry. I am sorry." The words slipped from his lips and the utterance of them seemed foreign and distant to his mind._

_And then the man broke into a humorless chuckle. "Who put you up to this?" he asked. He gazed up, but there was no mirth in his eyes._

"_I ,,, No one," he lied. "I wanted --"_

"_Not true!" Annatar cut him off. "You have never looked at me like that before! I know you well enough and you do not long for my likes. I know who you desire, and it is not --" He stopped, sudden understanding washing over his features. "She did this."_

"_No," Thranduil denied, but the lie was feeble._

_But the man ignored him__. "She did it." And then Annatar stared at him, disbelief warring with his features. "Did she do all of this? Did she mastermind our friendship?'_

"_Nay, I wanted it!" Thranduil protested. "It was all my doing."__ The lie was little better than before and he withered under Annatar's gaze._

"_You have never done this before," the man said, and it was a question though the comment was flat. It could have hurt to be assessed in such a way, but Annatar seemed to regard him with compassion, perhaps even pity. "You have never loved before, have you?"_

"_I have not," the elf confessed, knowing he was admitting his youth and inexperience once more. It might have shamed him to say as much before but, now, under these circumstances, he did not think his friend would use what he revealed against him. _

_Annatar__'s face crumbled in despair. "Ai, Thranduil!" He reached out to caress the elf's cheek in a gesture of concern and deep compassion. "Tell me what has happened. I need to know."_

"_There is nothing I can say," the elf replied, suddenly fearful of repeating his conversations with the queen for fear of the wrath they would unveil. _

"_If our friendship means anything to you, you will tell me," the man said, and his expression was needful and hurting._

"_I did not mean for it to be like this," the elf blurted. "Truly did I wish to know you."_

"_Tell me," the man repeated, and Thranduil found himself divulging everything that had been orchestrated in the last many months. The words fell out of him, and vaguely he realized what he was doing was tantamount to treason. Yet it was as if he had no will of his own and in the end he was glad to be free of the guilt that had been hanging over him. He had not realized what a burden it was._

_And then he got to the most recent meeting._

"_She wanted__ you to do WHAT?!"_

_Thranduil had not meant to confess __t__he words and what came after, for these were the__ most __of his confused__ feelings, but Annatar had somehow pulled the unspoken truth from him._

"_She never __actually said it," Thranduil defended. _

"_Nay, not said, but certainly implied! How could she?" The man was incensed. "She does not realize that all I want is to make agreements between our realms! I do not sell! I forge relationships where others might sell. Yet she thinks I am out for some personal gain!"_

"_I may have misunderstood," the elf again argued. He did not want Annatar to say dark things against Galadriel._

"_You are not a __fool, Thranduil, and you did not misinterpret her intent. She made it very clear what she wanted of you, and what is worse is the insidious way in which she manipulated you to get it... courtly love... coy flirtations..." Annatar was pacing as he said this, and the elf could not recall seeing him so impassioned. "I had heard -- had heard that she played her would-be suitors this way, but I never believed it true!"_

_The elf knew __his face burned bright__ red, and he felt such shame for his actions. He had been manipulated. He had been coerced to do something that was not within him. Were he a youngling he might be compelled to cry his shame. Instead all he wanted to do was flee so Annatar would see no more of his humiliation. "I -- I should leave, I think." And then he turned to go._

_A gentle hand__ held him back. "No..." The man turned him face to face. "This is my fault. I am sorry! You should not be made to feel ... It is a mistake, what she has done."_

_Thranduil shook his head. __"How can you claim this your fault?"_

_Annatar shrugged, not meeting his eyes. But he said, __"Were I the make of normal men she might not have perceived my vulnerability. Yet she knows me well enough to recognize I would be -- I am -- attracted to you, Thranduil."_

_The elf knew his eyes widened and he found he could not breathe. He was not sure what he felt at that moment, but it was indeed surprise. Surprise... and a sudden sense of betrayal._

_She knew! She knew this! And she had used Thranduil with this knowledge!_

_Boiling rage filled him. He had been used! __Used in such a way as to be an expendable toy. She had no real concern for him, setting him off on a mission of seduction. He was bait to her trap and still he did not understand her reasoning. _

_The pain __in his heart bowed him and he felt weakness consume him. He stumbled where he stood and he found Annatar guiding him to a seat. The man was murmuring apologies, yet Thranduil barely heard them. "It is my fault for lingering, for pursuing you in friendship. I should not -- I have made you vulnerable to her goals and her drive."_

_A glass was put into his hands and he sipped without thinking__. The taste was strange and he put the glass down, not wanting it__. The man was still speaking but only scattered words were registering in his mind. "... would never have pursued... know your love ... a paid harlot for this task, not you ..." And all the while, his head was spinning with the knowledge that he had been used._

_He closed his eyes, trying to draw breath into his constricted chest. He realized he was breathing in short gasps of air, and he brought his attention around to try to correct this. __Yet the thought of her touch lingered in his mind, only now instead of teasing him with unspoken promises it burned his heart, his mind and his thoughts. He felt fury toward her for exploiting his innocence._

_And then __Annatar's words broke into his thoughts. "It is something you never should have had to see of her. It is I who should leave."_

_The assertion__ frightened Thranduil worse than his own shame. "No!" he exclaimed, suddenly reaching out to grab the man's wrist as if he were to disappear from his sight in this instance._

"_She is right in one thing, Thranduil. I do have intentions here, though my goals are not those that she thinks. I have desire to make something... something wonderful. A gift that will benefit all peoples of this Middle-earth," Annatar said. His eyes shone with a new brightness as he said this. Kneeling down to the elf's level, their eyes met and he said, "But I think I will have to do this elsewhere. I am not wanted here."_

"_Not true! I do not want you to go!" he exclaimed. "I am sorry I even spoke of it, but more so I am sorry you should think to go. I would not have it of you. Please, you are my friend!"_

_The man __dropped his head, sighing heavily as he seemed to digest all that had been said. And then he lifted his head though he did not look at the elf. "It would make more sense if I were to leave. Your position is important and my friendship jeopardizes all you have worked for."_

_Thranduil__studied the man's face, tears filling his eyes though he was unsure why they were there. "Your friendship means more to me than any of her promises." And though he had not really thought this through before saying it, he knew he truly felt it. Galadriel would never be more to him than what she was now, even if he were to somehow succeed in getting the information she sought. _

"_We will not speak of her again," Annatar stated, and Thranduil knew this was a pact._

"_Agreed," he said__, realizing again the glass was being placed in his hands_

"_And there will be no consideration put toward__ seduction," the man added._

_Thranduil swallowed__ the wine__. It was already clear it was not in his nature to desire the man in this way, yet something clenched inside him to put words to such a promise. He truly did not feel anything sexual toward the man, but something of his curiosity had been sparked in their very short encounter. He wondered at the touch of the man's skin, and he desired to meet his lips in something gentler. It was a fleeting thought, and yet he spoke. "Might we...?" he started._

_The man turned his gaze upon the elf, and there was sudden sadness in his eyes. He reached out and touched a loose tendril of Thranduil's hair, but then he smiled as he always did, and pulled his hand away. "__Nay. It is not to be." _

_Thranduil could not say he was hurt by this. It was as if the idea had been just a whim, never more than that__, and he brushed the thought away like he might shoo a moth away from a light. _

"_Besides," Annatar said, "we have lessons to learn, and I think it time we put them on a faster course."_

_Thranduil's brow furrowed with confusion. "I have learned at the only pace I know how."_

_Annatar shook his head as __he __came again to stand. He put out his hand to help Thranduil to rise as well. "Nay, I think not. Once she learns that you do not bend to her, she will seek to send you away... back to your father, I think. We must prepare you before that happens."_

_Thranduil could only laugh. "Prepare me? You make it sound like you have some_ evil_plan in mind for me."_

_Annatar laughed too. "Nay, ev__il plans live elsewhere." He pointed his chin away to indicate a point beyond them, but then his expression became sober. "I wonder though..." He gazed thoughtfully at Thranduil__ as the elf took another sip of the wine__. "I had not considered it before, but perhaps when I conceive my gift I might keep you in mind."_

_It was a __vague thought, and the elf's brow narrowed as if to ask more on it._

_But the man waved __the words away as if he were chasing away a whisper of smoke and resumed where he had been. "I only want to make you ready to serve your father best, as we have been working toward."_

_Thranduil laughed then. __"And you have a better way to do this that I have not been made privy to? Why have you delayed?"_

"_Because," Annatar said with a quirk of hi__s head, "I was in no rush before. I had all the time in the world. But now that I know Galadriel pursues me, I find I must push forward with my plans. You will help me?" he asked._

_And though__ this was the first Thranduil had heard of any plans, he did not question them. He was rather uncertain what his friend had in mind, but he did not doubt his faith in the man. Actions were proof, and he knew where his allegiance was. He would not be a victim of innocence again, and he felt the fire once more when he considered the role he had played. Where Galadriel chose to use him, Annatar only wanted to help him. So with his friend's request for aid, he knew he must help. He was true, and unlike those who betrayed him, he could be loyal and trustworthy. Annatar would find no better aide. Thranduil would be faithful to him as they set off to meet their new goals. And realizing his friend waited only for one last thing from him, Thranduil nodded his agreement. It was done._

**TBC**


	29. When Passion Calls

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_**Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Eight: When Passion Calls**_

Thranduil sat bolt upright, startled into wakefulness by the vividness of the dream. Fatigue truly must have settled upon him if he were to fall so deeply into sleep.

It had been a long time since he last recalled his close ties with Annatar yet the distance of time did not make it any less disturbing. Too real was the memory brought to him by dream. As always, when put to moments of recollection such as this, the Passion called to him.

His head pounded as the recollections lingered over his nerve-taut flesh. It was as if no time had passed, and before his tear-filled eyes he could see the face of the deceptively handsome man, a coy smile playing on his lips and a silver goblet in his hands. _"Drink this, my friend. Drink and let me show you how I would have you." And so he had drunk, frowning at the odd taste of the wine. He had tasted it before and had thought it peculiar then. Now it was even more alive on his tongue._

_"What is it?" he asked, wrinkling his nose at the strong aftertaste of the strange claret. _

_"A blend of my own. Do you not find it satisfying?" And so he had as the flavor merged into something delicious and irresistible after a moment's passing, doubt flying away. He quickly took another and another sip. _

_And so it had begun, his education into the other side of his being. Galadriel had said he had darkness within him and now he was proving her correct. _

_"See the stones, my friend. Look into them and see the fire within them. If they are of fine quality, they should shine with a light all their own." He had looked into the gems and seen the myriad starbursts, finding himself hypnotized by the sparkle of the faceted rocks._

_"Look at the threads and the dye of the fabric. Look at the evenness of color in the material. Look at the coil of the thread and see that each is spun in exact likeness to one next to it. Smell it. Touch it. Let your senses show you its quality. Let the satiny sheen of it beguile you." And so he had. He had._

_He had learned of the craft readily, surprised by how easy it suddenly became to him. Before, he had been so inept. Now... _

_He became an appreciator of all skills he learned, finding each as intoxicating as the sips of wine. The longing to collect what he saw began to claim him. Each was beautiful in its own way. He wanted them all_

_He learned to judge the weight of fine metals by holding them in his hand. He learned to know a fine weapon by the gleam on a knife's edge. He learned to know the strength of a fortress by the stone that made its walls and the iron in its prison cells. He came to see honed warriors from the calluses worn into their hands and the make of their armor by the knit of their chain mail. He learned to judge them all with the same keen skill he had acquired in knowing a good wine. These became intuitive parts of him. They became his desires, his passions, though none were as great as his desire to please. All of these were but a tease. _

He automatically reached to the goblet on the side table, taking a long drink of the wine. It washed down his throat, burning warmly as it reached his gut, spreading heat out from there. He looked into the empty cup when he had finished his hardy gulps. He felt the world turn in a dizzying spin from the quickly downed drink and he lingered on its effect. Dregs sloshed in the last bit of the silver bowl he held between two hands, and he quickly swallowed those too. Sometimes that took the desire away.

Yet Passion still called him.

Desperately he gazed about the room, realizing there was still a small pool of the vivid liquid remaining in the last of the glass bowl on the table, near the balcony, and he rose on wobbly legs, not caring about his lack of grace. He would have his wine, for it was all he could think of to deaden his memory and push his want away. He did not want to think of how Sauron had fouled him. He wanted to forget the mistakes he had made.

He moved to the table that he might refill his goblet, but then pulled his hand away. _It is done,_ he told himself. _I need not live like this anymore_. But despite the fact that all he had fought these many years was indeed decimated with ruin, it did not end the urging. It was when he was gifted with his Passion that he came to conquer his doubts.

_I have fought it off before,_ he reminded himself, and he knew this to be true. Dozens of times in his life he had found long reprieves in his need and his personal qualms. He had cured himself, or so he had thought, of these demons. And yet a hundred years' passing or a thousand, he always managed find himself back at this place: lacking in confidence; daunted by memories; needing strength that did not exist in him otherwise.

And always it was precipitated by memories of his most fatal mistakes.

"_I wish I did not have to face this day," Thranduil had said. _

_Annatar nodded in understanding. "It is an uncomfortable situation, but the last you must endure. Today will be a real trial. I doubt she will let you part without asking a final round of questions regarding our activities. Do you fear her?"_

_Thranduil nearly laughed. "Fear? Nay. But I do loathe the pretense of it. I cannot be false in knowing she masterminded my dismissal. You predicted it and it has come to pass." The elf frowned and Annatar sighed._

"_Unfortunately I see her. I know what is in Galadriel's mind," the man remarked and he too looked forlorn by the outcome of their endeavors._

_Thranduil decided it might be better if they were to change the subject. He had so little time left and he did not want it to be steeped in melancholy. "What comes now?" he asked. _

_Annatar knew what he meant, but as was typical in his modesty he pretended not to. "You mean after today? Today is yet to pass. Who can say?"_

_The elf, charmed as always, laughed and simultaneously growled at his friend. "Annatar, I know you well enough to see you will encounter no difficulties today. You and Celebrimbor will hit it off well. And she will not be pleased." As he said this he could feel a surge of triumph riding up into his heart. He wished he might see her displeasure, but that was not to be. Instead he was limited to imagining Galadriel's fury._

"_You say that with such glee," Annatar observed, but there was no shortage of mischief in his gaze._

_Still, the elf played along. "Do I? I suppose I should try to mask that before my meeting with her," he replied casually, as if they were making an observance regarding the weather. And then he pressed again to the matter at hand. "Truly though, should today go well, what do you think comes next?"_

_The man shrugged. "Simply all that we have planned." _

_And Thranduil, of course, understood this.__ What they did was for the better of Eregion, for the city, and for all the people -- elf and man alike-- who lived there. Over several years they had put all the pieces together to rebuild the routes of commerce. This last step, through the Jewelers Guild, would ensure Annatar a powerful role in the city. They had found a way to bypass Celeborn and Galadriel's rule. Agreements had been made with nearly every other union in the city, and as an ambassador for trade, Annatar could proceed without having to go through the courts for the various permissions. Galadriel and Celeborn no longer were needed to procure associations and stand up for the rights of their people. The jobs of the noble couple were futile. Annatar, with Thranduil's help, could go direct to his sources. The elf took pride in that. _

_And justly so. After all these years, Thranduil was so vexed by Galadriel's manipulative ways that he was glad he could do something against her wishes. Further, the kiss still plagued him, despite several years passing. He could not let that action pass. But he told himself that outwardly it was her prodding and twisted management that gave him the incentive to act in this. She forbade him from going near Celebrimbor or the Jewelers Guild and he supposed he knew her reasons; Celebrimbor often gifted her with jewels and she was protecting her source. Celebrimbor had never been interviewed for court admission as far as Thranduil could recall; he supposed being part of the same family line as Galadriel gave the jewel lord unsupervised access. In truth, he really knew nothing of Celebrimbor and it was that that gave him the incentive to pursue this goal. He did not need her. Thranduil attempted introductions on his own for the sake of himself and Annatar. It was almost with perverse pleasure that he could make the pairing now._

_Approaching Celebrimbor had not been easy though. There was the dwarf, Narvi, almost constantly in the elf's company. He had a suspicious look about him that made Thranduil feel ill, though it was true that Thranduil did not hold that race in high auspices. _With good reason, _he would justify. For after the crimes committed against his family in Doriath, he truly had good reason to doubt. It was all he could do just to be in the same room with dwarves. Of course, Annatar tried to coach him to change -- Annatar was always coaching him in some aspect of statesmanship -- but Thranduil could not stomach the thought of ever being friendly to a dwarf. "Perhaps as I age," he would murmur to his friend, but he did not really believe it true. _

_Yet there was an elf, Faeldaer, who also kept close company with Celebrimbor as well, and it was through him that Thranduil turned his friendship, It was actually to Thranduil's amusement that he learned of Faeldaer's loathing for the dwarf too, and he found the elf with the golden eyes to have as many negative things to say about dwarves as he did. _

_Thranduil was careful though. He did not pursue Celebrimbor in Galadriel's presence though he was often present in the halls when Celebrimbor and Narvi would present her with gifts. She would blush and play a demure role; jealously Thranduil wondered if she whispered words of love to them -- and more specifically to the dwarf. The thought of it made Thranduil's ire mount._ _Still, Annatar would council him for peace._

_All the more, this gave him reason to choose Faeldaer as a friend. And in that, over time, he became friends with Celebrimbor. Eventually he was forced to meet Narvi, but when he did he kept a long distance from the nogothrin. _

_Annatar did not push Thranduil for the meeting; the idea came from the elf. Yet Annatar did agree that theirs could be a strong association if it should happen. As knowledgeable as Annatar was with jewels, it only made sense that Celebrimbor, a metalsmith of great renown, should be known. Thranduil made the introduction to Faeldaer, and Faeldaer was now going to introduce Annatar to Celebrimbor. The strings between them were being woven and he had no doubt the two would hit it off well._

_To his further glee, Galadriel knew none of it. Thranduil could only smile at the thought that should she learn of a new relationship forged between her personal jeweler and the man she so vehemently distrusted. She would be enraged. Coldly, darkly enraged. How he longed to actually witness the moments when she would realize his betrayal. Darkness was within him after all. She had told him so._

_Then again, he could muse, he was only doing what she had told him to do. Had Galadriel not intervened, he might never have allowed Annatar to befriend him as he had. _Seduce him_, she had said, but in some ways it was Annatar who had seduced Thranduil. Did it matter anymore who fell to whom?_

_And then the elf sighed. "I hate the thought that this might be the end of us."_

_Annatar looked up. "There is a gift I have conceived for you. "_

"_For me?" Thranduil asked, both amused and surprised._

_The man gave him a warning look. "Conceived I have said. It is not made yet. But after today's meeting I have hopes it will be."_

"_It is a pity then that I must leave." He shook his head, realizing he must be more humble. "You will have to find another to present it to."_

_The man pursued. "Nay, it is yours. I will find a way to deliver it."_

"_The Greenwood is not so distant as that. A short journey would deliver you there," the elf laughed._

"_Is that an invitation?" the man joked._

"_Do you need one?" Thranduil returned._

_Annatar shoved his friend away teasingly. "Is the forest under your rule? Aye, I need an invitation!"_

_Thranduil easily laughed. "Then it is given! Please, come, visit me. Stay even. I am sure my father would enjoy meeting you."_

_The man scoffed, obviously not taking the elf seriously. "Only for a time. I wear on people, you know. King Oropher would tire of me soon."_

"_Oh, do not belittle yourself so! You know you are a most pleasant companion. You could come and stay in my homeland wood for the rest of your days and I would most welcome it," the elf excused._

_It seemed for the moment that Annatar might actually be considering the idea. "It is a pleasant thought, that."_

"_It is indeed," Thranduil added. He waited a moment, finding he wanted to ask of it but not wishing to press. Still, in a minute he asked, "Might you consider it?"_

_The man shook him away. "Thranduil, it is a flattering offer, but how could I?" Thranduil wondered if he detected wariness in that reply and something about it made him shiver. He could not see anything unique in this conversation. It was like all others he ever had with Annatar. Honest, earnest, natural and undriven -- all points came from moments of the heart and there was never a sense of manipulation in them. And yet, Thranduil suddenly had the feeling he had been maneuvered into saying exactly as he had and pressed to make this offer. _

_Yet how could he think that? Here, Annatar was giving his reasons as to why it would not be wise and Thranduil was countering them. How was that being manipulated? Still unease existed and he realized that suddenly the reason was because the words slipped so easily from him. This conversation was normal, neutral, but the ideas behind them did not come from his heart. "Granted, you have your task here. But once you have fulfilled your goals, perhaps you might come to the Greenwood," he heard himself offering._

_And then an instant later, this thought disappeared, and Thranduil's hesitance went away. The arguments were his again, and he believed in the words. _

"_That is not what I mean. I could not make my home there," Annatar said._

_This time the elf scoffed. "Why not? It is a large enough forest. All of Eregion could reside in my father's lands and have vast space beyond!"_

"_So you really want me there?" The man gazed at him expectantly, and here again, Thranduil found doubt in himself. Yet as the words fell off his tongue, he believed in them all. _

"_Yes, Annatar, I really want you there. Come! Come, please! Live in the Greenwood. I invite you now," he said purposefully. Inside, he felt confused, torn, perhaps even a little frightened. He did not know how he had been so possessed. He did not feel the part of a thrall, but a part of him doubted his words and he seemed powerless to control them. These were but dashing thoughts, but they still played in his mind enough for him to take notice. Yet retracting them seemed an impossibility._

_And then, as if a trap had been set and he found himself caught in the web of a spider, the answer came. They would haunt Thranduil for the rest of his life, for here too, like the drink, he saw he had to choose it before the magic of whatever dark spell had been cast upon him could take effect. He heard the words, and he knew with a sense of foreboding that all was lost. "Very well, Thranduil," Annatar replied. "I accept your invitation. I will come to your forest."_

Thranduil cast off the memory, turning about to realize again he was in the well-appointed room in Lothlorien realm. He was shaking, fear making the contents of the goblet in his hands spill. The memory was but one part of the truth, though it did not pass as he ever could have imagined it. Annatar was not the man he had thought him to be. In fact he was no Man at all, though it took, despite that shiver of doubt, many long years for Thranduil to truly recognize that fact.

He asked himself the question he had asked many thousands of times before as his doubts worked into his bones. _Why did I do it? Why did I press to introduce him to Celebrimbor? Why did I offer him a place in my home? _But the truth of the matter was readily clear should he look to it. He had fallen into Sauron's power without even suspecting as much.

He looked down into his hands, realizing the motion released the wine's subtle aroma causing the liquid to rise upon the sides of the cup. That it was now filled and the decanter was now empty he did not remember doing, but he did not doubt it had come of his own hand in the unconscious motion of his body. Too many times had he done so automatically despite what his mind told him. He put the cup down now with a shaking hand and stepped away. It would not help! It would not help! His blame and guilt were taking control and excuses were no longer placating his inferiority.

_He is not here to make it of me. No more need I be ruled by him, or his choices. He is dead. He is gone!_

He tried to calm himself with this thought. All would be different now. Legolas had helped to destroy the demon that was Sauron and thus, indirectly, brought about Thranduil's own freedom. _There should be reward for that,_ he thought. He would see that Legolas came into his own and learn the kingly honors that were a part of his station, without learning to be tainted by the more petty vices of it, as he had. He could do that, now that he was no longer bound to the darkness of Sauron's part in his home.

But first he must find his son.

The fear of his potential loss made him tremble. So much emotion. So much doubt. To have come this far...

He brought the cup to his lips then and began to sip, realizing only then that he had taken it up again in his private battle. The wine passed his lips, but it did not quell him. He felt his ache. Passion screamed out at him, and he knew there was no more wine past this cup to allay him. He could bear it no more. The Passion was taking control, and he could not flee fast enough. Doubts would always find him and he would always be plagued. _Curses!_ he thought, dropping the goblet in that instant.

The red wine splattered as it fell, staining his robe as if by wound and dousing the table and floor with the heavy liquid that had splashed upon it.

_Curses! _he screamed in his angered mind as he staggered backward, bumping into the bed and the small table where he had locked away his dearest effects. He wheeled around to face the delicate piece of furniture. His hands were shaking, and though he fought them, he found they worked of their own accord. He pulled open the drawer and withdrew the small box. It gleamed golden and black, shining with same beauty that it had when it had first been presented to him. His fingers caressed it, and he could not rule them. He found that he sat now on the bed, without thinking it, too shocked by the surprise of being so incredibly vulnerable once again.

And then he howled at the memories. This was the power they had over him.

"Curses to you, Sauron, you foul monster!" he mouthed as tears of anguish and shame filled his eyes. "Curses to you, Annatar!" he screamed at the memory of the man who had been his corrupter. And then he bowed his head in misery, his sorrow culminating into a pitiful bellow as his fingers fumbled upon the catch. This was his fault! His! And he fell back into his blame, collapsing into the bed, the box opening and the contents taking over, consuming him. He had allowed himself to be taken by the mortal guise of his most wretched enemy and now here was the price.

And as he breathed in ragged sobs and long lost surety started to fill him again, he could hear the slow beat of the spilled wine dripping on the other side of the room. From the table to the floor, he could hear the liquid splatter, thick and heavy. The thrum of it was familiar, and vaguely he recalled that it was likened to the grim sound of blood spilling from a cut vein.

**TBC**

**AN:** I must apologize for the long wait between chapters. I have been chastised for this and I feel horrible for leaving you waiting. It is not my intent to drag this out. It's a tough story to write, and an overburdened real life has slowed my progress considerably.

I think what I'd like to do is finish writing this story completely before releasing any more of it. When I do put it out, I'll release chapters on a weekly basis. If life goes well, and the muses are nice, that hopefully will happen this Fall.

Until then... my best to you.


	30. One Small Kiss

**AN**: I know there is snow on the ground for some of you, but technically it's still Fall, right? I wish I could say my little sabbatical went as I had hoped, but my muse was not good to me; he deserted me several months ago without explanation. The best I could get out of him was something about 'clown college.' But hey, he's back and I'm grateful for whatever my red-nosed friend can offer.

For all my efforts, this story is not done. But I think there is enough here to start releasing chapters as I continue to flesh out the remainder I have yet to complete. I plan on putting out new chapters every two weeks or so, and perhaps if my muse suffers no more bouts of wanderlust or pie-in-the-face antics, there won't be any disruption for you, the readers. Let's see where this takes us, shall we...

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarien_**

**Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Twenty-Nine: One Small Kiss**

Gimli walked in a grim forest, his boots crunching atop the decomposing plantlife of the dark wood. A fog hovered about him but he could see the naked forms of sickly trees visible through the haze.

He did not feel comfortable here. Over these many months he had traveled into lands that frightened him terribly and felt otherworldly. This place was like those but different as well. It was familiar and worrisome. He thought perhaps he should feel fear, and he did, but not the anxious fear one feels when danger looms behind every tree. This was the fear one feels when they've already seen what lies there and hopes it will not reappear.

The dwarf knew what it was he dreaded. The Ent. Though his mind was muddled, he could remember the creature and the deception it had created. Why it had struck and changed its reasoning so suddenly made no sense to Gimli. Granted, the tree-creature was sick, but that was no reason to hurt them. He and Legolas had done nothing to merit such harm.

He walked on, not sure where he was going or even of the purpose for his journey but feeling once he reached his destination he would know why he was there. It seemed both strange and perfectly natural.

And then he heard a sound. Distant and thin, a voice rose over the din of the silent doom. Song came to his straining ears, and he recognized the source. The singer he knew immediately.

"Legolas," he whispered under his breath, and then realizing this was his quest, he cried the name louder, "Legolas?"

His voice was insistent, and he knew it conveyed his concern. Not only was he on a journey to find his friend but he also knew that he had been looking for some time. Something in his mind told him Legolas had been searching for him too.

No reply came to his call, and this worried him. Legolas would not avoid or ignore him now. "Legolas?" he called again. The song remained without break. He tried to determine the source of it. It seemed so far away.

"Where are you?" he cried out into the hazy surroundings. He listened intently. The voice seemed directionless, the sound coming from any way that he turned. He pivoted on his toes but could not find a clear source. And then finally, feeling frustrated, he chose a path and followed it, deciding if the sound receded it clearly meant he was moving away.

But instead of growing dimmer, the voice came clearer still, and he began to run as it became obvious he was approaching his friend.

The vision of the elf was not easy to discern. Like the haze of the fog, Legolas seemed a figment lost on the fringes of the dwarf's vision. Had he not been looking, Gimli thought he might have missed his friend completely. Silhouetted in a tree, Legolas barely appeared there. He was like a ghost.

"Legolas," Gimli called out to his friend.

The elf dipped his head, glancing toward the dwarf, but the song persisted. Slowly, stepping down from his perch and weaving through the tree, the elf began to lower himself to the branches beneath, his intent clearly the call of the dwarf. As he came to the ground the song ended, and Gimli, for the first time denoted the sorrowful notes of it.

"That was a grim tune," he commented softly.

"Nay, there is nothing of that sort within it," Legolas said, standing before the dwarf. The contradicting comment meant nothing to the dwarf. It would have been as it always was between them and this delight Gimli. He threw his arms about Legolas' waist.

"I have been looking for you," the dwarf announced.

"I had hoped you would come," Legolas answered with a small laugh.

"I tried to find you but I was hurt. I thought you might come looking for me," Gimli replied, stepping out of the embrace.

"I could not leave. I was trapped. There was no escape. I wanted to find you but my feet would not carry me past the threshold. I am glad you are here though," Legolas said, and now standing fully before the dwarf, Gimli saw that the elf did not look well.

His cheekbones were clearly defined, as if he had not eaten in some while, and his eyes carried dark circles beneath them. The elf's hair had darkened in places too, like the counter to the sun's touch. But most concerning was the way Legolas looked at him. It was as if he looked through him.

"There is something wrong with your eyes," Gimli said, but Legolas ignored him, waving a hand.

"You were hurt. Will you live?" the elf asked, but his voice denoted no concern. It was the same way Legolas might ask if Gimli wanted a pint of ale.

The dwarf watched his friend carefully. "I have no plans to do otherwise." Legolas did not even seem to notice his feeble joke. "Besides," he continued, following the elf's absent gaze and putting himself within Legolas' eye line, "it seems I must be well if I am to rescue you. You appear ill."

"Nay, I am well. You should be happy for me," the elf said, the notes of a song coming into the end of the words. The notes again took on the dark sound. Legolas turned away as he sang.

"Why should I be happy?" Gimli asked, taking steps to follow the elf.

Legolas stopped suddenly, turning around to face the dwarf. "I am to be soul-bound... 'wed' you would call it," he said with a smile.

Gimli frowned, but then his eyes noticed the gesture that was becoming familiar to him whenever the elf faced a troubling moment. Legolas' hand pressed against his thigh. And there, Gimli saw the blood.

"You are hurt," he said with alarm.

"It is an old wound," the elf shrugged. "It matters none, for I am happy, Gimli." His hands brushed against his tunic, and a smear of blood marked it.

"That is no old wound," Gimli said, pointing to the stain. "Blood pours freely from it. We need to bandage it -- now -- before you bleed out completely."

"All is well. I feel no pain," Legolas said, limping away and beginning to sing again.

"No, Legolas, look!" the dwarf cried, reaching out to stop his friend.

Legolas glanced down to where Gimli pointed. "It does not hurt. I am free of it at last. I need not flee my hurts any further."

But as Gimli followed the direction of Legolas' gaze and then up again, he saw that the blood was not just localized to the wound; it was spattered across the elf's face and washed the front of his tunic. It seemed to spread to his leggings and across his sleeves. He was covered in it.

Legolas, eyes still strange, laughed. He looked up and then leapt into the branches of the nearest tree. Gimli lost sight of him as he scrambled up, disappearing into the fog. But his voice was still there, made apparent with the song. And this time, the notes were happy and clear. Gimli began to think he might have been wrong. Perhaps he had just been imagining the wound.

But then the notes ended and all became silent.

"Legolas?" he called out. There was no answer.

"Legolas!" He could hear his voice, and though he had thought to shout out, the sound was a mere whisper.

"Calm to you, Elvellon," a female voice said. He tried to open his eyes. He suddenly realized that this had been a dream. The reality was terrible pain. The ache in his head created a loud drumming within his ears, but that was countered by a smooth hand which caressed his cheek. _Is this better?_ The sound was within his head and it did not hurt as outward sound did. It felt gentle, like the hand on his skin.

His head was lifted and he could feel a cup at his lips. _Drink,_ the voice commanded, and he obeyed. A cool trickle of water slid into his mouth and down his throat. It felt good to drink and he had not realized just how parched his throat was until that moment. His lips curled around the lip of the cup and his strength was enough that he tilted his head further toward the drink. He wanted more. _You are recovering. The healers do a fine job. You will be on your feet soon._ He was not sure he believed this.

She stood and Gimli realized who she was. Yet he was weary and found his tongue suffered for speech.

_Save your strength,_ Galadriel said, leaning down to him again. He felt her in his mind, her thoughts brushing there like a wind among fallen leaves. She did not press. The sense of her was likened to a bird in motion, light and quick.

_Fangorn, _she said._ We look there now but what I see in your mind makes little sense to me. None in that wood would bear ill will toward you or your friend._

"No..." It was nearly impossible to say more.

_I have already looked in my mirror and seen much that is strange to me, but I will see what I can learn of Legolas. Do not fear; we will find him. Work now to recover._

"So what thoughts has he? What do you know?" another asked and Gimli's heavy eyes lifted enough to see Legolas questioning the Lady.

His eyes started to close. It was all a dream then. Here was Legolas; he was not lost. But then..._Legolas_?

He started; he could feel his heart pound rapidly with surprise and joy.

"Legolas..." he whispered. His eyes fought to open. He found they filled with tears before he could truly see. Such emotion! This was not like him! But he could not seem to help himself.

Galadriel's voice interjected. "I can only read what his heart will allow," she said.

He was so confused. He had only just now been dreaming of Legolas and his friend seemed so lost. He momentarily gained focus of his gaze. Only... nay, it was not Legolas she spoke to. His brow furrowed and his head pounded new pain.

"I will tell you what I know when it is right to do so, Thranduil."

_Thranduil?!_ Gimli gasped.

The lady's hand pressed into his chest. "Peace, Gimli. All will be well." _He will do you no harm. _He felt a sense of peace radiate about him then and his eyes drifted shut, past the tears that wet his skin. He paid no mind to the elf then.

And just as she said this, the troubling pain that had plagued him lessened somewhat. His head was heavy and though the ache was not gone, he was better; he felt better. Perhaps she was right and he would rise again.

Hand in hand, Galadriel and Celeborn departed the dwarf's bedside. But Galadriel's mind was not on the present but far away, drifting to a distant past. She could hear Thranduil's insistent voice yet in her mind. Were she to drive her thoughts there she would have known what he thought. But she did not care to intrude. She had done enough of that in the past and recognized now that many of the flaws in Thranduil could be sourced to her. She had taught him much, but she had not always taught him well.

She did not realize her path had come to an end until Celeborn had pulled her to a stop. She blinked, surprised. And then he kissed her.

She was lost for words but he offered his own. "And now?" he asked.

"They will leave," she said, and to this he nodded.

"The dwarf too, you think," Celeborn queried.

"Gimli too," she confirmed. "I have seen this in my mirror."

"We have a role yet in this," he added, questioning more than stating and he looked to her to confirm this.

She would need to look into her mirror again and learn more, but she knew the answer. Thranduil and Gimli could not deal with this event alone. She nodded in answer to her spouse.

"I will make the necessary arrangements," Celeborn replied. He kissed her and she watched him walk away.

The kiss lingered on her lips, and she brought her fingers to them. Though she was sure Celeborn did not realize the thoughts in her mind, the sensations carried her back to a time long in the past, a time when a kiss had been the mark of a mistake. She remembered pleading eyes, and misery such as only those too young find when they venture where they should not.

She shivered in memory.

She had not meant to kiss Thranduil.

Long years had passed, and yet the memory was still fresh to her.

She had not meant to kiss him. The action had come as a compulsion, a way to assuage the piteous cry of a young heart and to stave off her tumultuous emotions. A kiss. To some it might not even have been called as much; it was just the barest brush of their lips, almost chaste. And yet the change in Thranduil's expression showed it meant something to _him_. It was then that she realized it was too late. It was done. Fleeting feelings of love on his part had blossomed into heady longing in that instant. For her, the mistake was immediately known. He was hers and now she had no choice but to try to remedy her error.

She returned to the moment, playing it out fully in her mind.

"I cannot --" she pushed him away. Of course she knew he would not advance on her; Thranduil was too polite to do otherwise. She said it for her own sake. She had always been true to Celeborn. She fought to convince her heart.

"Galadriel," Thranduil said, reaching a tentative hand to her, dropping his more formal means of addressing her.

"No, Thranduil!" she admonished, stepping away.

"My lady," he called out, but she would not be stayed. She sought escape from him. She sought relief from her troubled thoughts.

She could not describe her heart. It was confused. She loved Celeborn; she felt this with all her being. But there was trouble that had come into their kingdom and it threatened to tear her apart.

How could she betray Celeborn? He knew her heart and he knew her ambition. He saw her aspirations and knew her desires. He was a mirror to her. Yet, for a fleeting moment, the moment of the kiss, she had considered letting everything between them go.

"My queen, please! Let me speak with you!" Thranduil begged. But he was not the source of her troubles. The kiss was just a distraction from what truly tore at her heart. And now she had ruined everything that there had been between them as well.

It was Celeborn she knew she should be seeking. He understood her. Perhaps he would understand what she was going through now. The only difference between them was his methods; they were quieter than hers. Had their lives been reversed and he had experienced the world as she had, she had no doubt history would paint him the more valiant and respectable. He would not be regarded as she was, a rebellious warrior, a dogged persuant of change. He was the mask to her impetuous nature. They reigned jointly though most perceived the power to be his. She was just an inputting voice. But the truth was they were a team. After this, could it remain such?

There was so much to lose and she had set the wheels of that loss into motion. She had not expected to love ruling a realm as much as she did. She did not want to forsake it all, and yet it was all she could see. Annatar had done this to her. He had confused her heart.

She had come a clear distance from where the kiss had transpired, climbing up the terrace steps and coming to a level above the scene. Thranduil yet remained, seated upon a bench with his head in his hands. She could see him from this location, but he could not see her. This gave her the advantage, but that is what she had always done with. He was an innocent in all of this and she had used what she already knew of him for her own purposes.

Thranduil loved her.

She understood that. Foolishly she had not seen it at first. At first she had seen his rapt attention as just his eager attempts to please her and, perhaps indirectly, please his father. At first she had just thought him a humorless child that missed her efforts to make him laugh. He did not see she would play a mothering role to him if he would only allow it. Yet there came a time after careful observance that it occurred to her that he was not such a miserable lad as all that; he was actually besotted of her.

That truly was not an unusual thing for Galadriel -- elves and men of all kinds had professed their love to her, she just had not experienced such feelings with one as young as Thranduil.

Once she had learned it, she had tried to amend her methods. She started repeating herself more frequently and attempted to be out of his sightline when she spoke to him. These proved to be effective; her first utterances were lost to his infatuation otherwise. In this she demonstrated more patience with him though it meant sacrificing humor and friendship as tactics for learning. Her heart ached for his infatuation, for in truth it made him far too eager to please her. To actually scold him was to find him mortified, almost incapacitated by his hurt. From her, correcting comments light or small had to be measured. It was tiring and she oft left this task to one of the other courtiers, or even to Celeborn if he was willing. Yet despite this, Thranduil served as a good aid; his eagerness was matched by a keen mind, and she observed with others that he had a sharp wit as well.

But she also had used his devotion for her own benefit.

_Perhaps it was because he was perceptive_, she rationalized. He was a bright enough elf to know when he was being played. Yet in her mind it sounded painful to confess this. In truth there was nothing overt in what she had done. She merely found that through his infatuation she was able to get things she might not have otherwise. Mention that she enjoyed berries of a certain kind, and rare though they were she would find them presented at her next day's meal, a gift worked out by him. Or speak of a trust she feared for, and he would learn the details of any betrayal away from the court. Her words of thanks along with a small smile or a touch of his hand were usually payment enough. But these too were also methods of society. Flirtation and conversation laden with suggestion were typical of not just the Hollin court but of every court she had attended. No one just spoke outright his or her needs. Words were a game that led to action. The trick was playing them so the action came from another.

And that was exactly how she came to gift Thranduil with a kiss.

Words. Words filled with tension and suggestion. Words that outwardly said one thing and yet secretly spoke of another.

She gazed down at Thranduil again from her hidden perch. It appeared he had gathered his composure. He stood and moved out of her sight, roaming elsewhere in the gardens. The ease of this gesture would later lead her to believe he was past her manipulations, that all could resume as it had. That would prove to be a mistake. In the moment however, with Thranduil no longer before her, she found it easier to blame him for her lapse. After all, had he not brought the man into the courts, none of this might have happened. Had he not brought Annatar...

Annatar... Lord of Gifts. That was what he called himself. Yet the name was false, for this man was not offering gifts. Were it that simple, hearing him and granting his petition would be no hardship. Superficially he was harmless. But beneath the surface there was more to the man than what he let on. He came with greater intentions than these.

From the moment she saw him she knew what he wanted. It seemed to her his desire lay naked before them. She could barely find voice for her alarm. How dare he be so overt! And yet, when she found the power to drag her eyes from his stare, she realized no others had discerned what she had.

He had come for her. He wanted her. His heart was set upon possessing her, for possessing her meant controlling all the elves under her rule.

And still, she might have dismissed him -- if only she could explain the reason her heart beat so fiercely at just the thought of him. In the depths of her soul she knew he possessed something she longed for. Her hands shook with the fright his presence engendered.

And that is where this present fiasco had started.

Thranduil had not taken Celeborn's most recent berating well. The young elf had presented the man to the courts when he should not have, and Thranduil had taken the reprimand of his lord-idol to heart. He had been near tears, torn by his confused feelings. He had been captivated with Annatar and deceived by the man's falsity; with a bruised soul, he lamented his failing to her.

She had found him in the gardens and his despair matched her confusion. Somehow the kiss had slipped past, an accident of touch. She had merely reached out to him, a hand to his shoulder, a means to console. Yet that simple touch had strayed and become a stroke to the cheek, a brush of her thumb across his lips. He had looked at her with those eyes, yearning and innocent, and their gazes fixed. It had not been her intent to lean forward and to let her lips meet his. It had not been her intent but somehow it had been done.

A kiss ... She had not meant it to occur. Things now might never be as they had been had the kiss never occurred.

She shook herself to awareness, remembering her place on the path. Celeborn gone from her, she shivered in quiet misery.

It was all a part of the past. But it lived still in this moment, and though Annatar had been revealed in the end as the deceiver she had known him to be, it did not change things between Thranduil and her. Annatar was gone but the damage had been wreaked. It was still upon them, devastating and played out in the horrible aftermath she now witnessed. The actions of one age had affected another, and it was clear that one small kiss had created everything that marred the life of a forest realm. Legolas was now lost and shorn, his spirit torn from that of his kin, and the fault of that rested, albeit indirectly, with her. Yet she knew without doubt all the actions stemmed from her. It was her fault. And worse yet, though she would intercede and try as best she could, the matter might never be remedied. She had seen the outcome. Death had been foretold in the mirror.

**T****o ****B****e ****C****ontinued...**


	31. Two Queens

**A/N:** Be warned; the M rating holds true for this chapter. Very graphic material here.

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty: Two Queens_

She was a queen of her kind, having weight and power that no male of her species could bear. It was only recently that she had learned that being female had its benefits.

Of course she was subservient to one, but only one, and all others answered to her will if she demanded it of them.

For now she was content to follow, to go by his command. She really desired little else but a place away from the light of the sun and the satisfactions a mate brought when the rutting came over her. And of course, blood. She loved the sensation of blood upon her skin.

She was an orc, so these things were natural to her. And being a female, she had special needs that were fulfilled because her sex demanded it. Yet she had not really learned how much power she wielded until just recently.

Female orcs were a rarity in normal times. Now that her race was dying, being chased out of the woods that had been her home for so many years, she was considered by many to be the last of her kind. She was the last female in her tribe at any rate. And though she did not doubt orcs still lived in the dark lands and the mountains beyond, in this wood -- this "murky" wood -- she was certain she was the only one left. The collapse of the tower had seen to that.

Before her, there had been a queen, a real queen, one orc who knew her place and had lived to rule for countless years. She had dominated the breeding rooms, picking and choosing which females would mate with which males, always pressing to get the best offspring from the pairings. And the female orc was content with her lot, her only other desire being that to go and fight so that she might taste blood on occasion. There was not enough blood in the birthing places, unless one counted that taken from within when another whelp was born. It was not so satisfying to drink the blood that came out of one's own body, but it sufficed when hunting was not allowed.

She had been one of the lucky ones that night, given leave to go out with the males and do battle. For one of the first times in many years, the mating dens had been fully satisfied with the number of female breeders, and there was a confidence in knowing they could spawn more of their kind in quick time if need occurred. The house had been active, and for her own part she had birthed two weeks before. She would not be ready to breed again for another few days, and her time had come up in the rotation for battle duty. She gleefully accepted her leave, looking forward to getting out for the kill. The times were ideal. Their enemy had been especially active lately and she was assured some blood would be spilled.

Little did she know when she went out that she would never return to the breeding dens. A battle of such magnitude she could never have imagined was waged and she was trapped without, forced away from the tower by the fighting madness. Oh, she had tasted blood that night, but the drunken power it brought her wore off the minute she realized she could not go home. She fled and hid with the rest, finding caves and burrows to hole up in.

And then the tower had been toppled and the anguish and anger within her festered into cold hatred. She discovered her power then as the tribe began to grow into a collective of the lost. They burrowed in, digging deep into the earth, but the enemy elves seemed determined, and for the first time that she could recall, they gave chase -- real chase. Their hiding places were discovered time and time again, and with each loss, they were forced to move and find another place, suffering the deaths of more and more of their kind.

They had managed to find a place long enough for her to breed a several times since then. The last brat born already stood at shoulder height to a man, and in another week he would be indistinguishable to any other of her lot. Orcs grew to full size quickly, which was to their benefit, for there were not many of them now. Within her soul she knew it was her task to rebuild the strength of her tribe. That was what gave her power.

"Irgluk!" the leader called out to her.

She snarled at him, startled by the sound of her name being called, but then she scuttled to his side. She had little use for a name in the breeding halls. But here, her master, who was also her mate, insisted on calling all who served him by name. She had nearly forgotten hers when he had first asked it of her.

"We move out tomorrow," he informed her. She could have argued with him and she knew he waited to see what she might say. The rut was upon her and she was in full heat. He could smell it and she knew that motivated his reason for even speaking to her. She could have stayed their leave with a word. But she also wanted blood and revenge. She was not pleased to have lost the lifestyle she known. There was something of a dreamy calm that came in the sameness of it. The tower, for all the pain that was suffered there, was protected and kept under the care of a power that was greater than her. That was now gone and she lived her life in constant danger. She wanted blood and she wanted those who had done this to her to suffer. The desire for it was stronger than the need to procreate.

And so she granted her permission lowering her head to his as was a proper means of showing subservience. They would attack the remaining elves before any more could come. And then they would make way for the forest edge with the intent to cross the great plain between their forest and the mountains. Her thoughts centered only on blood. Elf blood. She would have it.

But their leader had other ideas for her at this moment, and with a roar he dismissed all but her. He pushed her to the wall, his lust made apparent now that the orders had been given. She knew power drove males to such urges and it pleased her somehow. She could smell his assertions and it warmed her, her heat rising, driving her very breathe. And in turn he drooled to the scent of her body. Gnashing his teeth, he drove into her, crushing her to the wall. No others took note of them, parting to give them the space they needed as was the way.

With brutal hands, he tore her breeches away. In an equally quick movement, he flipped her around, his strength overpowering her. The rut was the thing driving him now and in his insistent want her face was pushed into the stone of the wall, cutting the skin at her jaw. She did not care. Instead her thoughts were centered upon the feeling of being filled, crooning groans stemming from her gullet. She wanted it as much as he did.

But he was quick. His actions were one of demand. He cared for nothing but what he needed. It would not be this way in the mating rooms and this too angered her. He withdrew before she could be sated. As if he realized his skill lacking, with a grunt he cuffed her across the back of the head. And then he was gone, leaving her huddled and alone. She was still wanting, her clothing shredded, as was her anger. But unlike the males, she could control herself in her heat. She could think and want simultaneously. And so her mind quickly calculated her next actions. She wanted more. The leader was gone and he had marked her but she was a female and she still had the scent of ripeness upon her. She could choose.

She pulled herself up, gathering what remained of her clothes about her. She wandered the halls, sniffing the males as they in turn sniffed her. Few would dare near her now that he had been there, but she could tell their lusts were piqued just by her nearness. And all was not in despair; there were those willing to assert their desire. She watched as they growled at one another. Yet it was her choice. She could have let them fight, but she wanted power too and this was how she could wield it.

She sniffed one tall male attempting to discern his identity beyond the smell of his want. She had one rule she lived by no matter who she was paired with; she would not mate with one she had made. Of this one she could discern no familiarity and so favored him with a snarl.

He smiled and followed her as she led him to a dark hall. The leader, though done with her, would not be pleased if she took her needs openly. And so she chose a dark corner to fulfill her wants.

He mounted her as their leader had, and this irritated her. She tore at him so he would give her what she wanted. Often she found pain could prolong the end. And so she had it her way, taking command of their needs. She waited him out, listening to the sound of his panted breath as well as her own. And then she smiled. It seemed the efforts wore him out for he did not fight when she shoved him off her at his completion. Cracking his head on the wall, his eyes rolled in his head, but found her again as she knelt next to him a moment later. It seemed he almost smiled at her, and that was the expression she left him with as she quickly broke his neck.

It would not do to have him live. Their leader would surely kill him if she had not. Better for all to think she did as she must to preserve the leader's place among the tribe.

And then she stole of him his trousers, satisfying her need to replace her ruined clothes, minor though it might have been.

She rose once she dressed and strode back into the den. She knew her scent was now changed and it would alter the atmosphere about her. She found the mass of bodies of the tribe sleeping in a collective order. And so she laid herself down among them, the need for sleep overwhelming her. Yet she grinned as she allowed her fatigue to take command of her. _We move out tomorrow,_ their leader had said to her and she would obey. Yet she knew her own powers for this was her brood, her tribe, and they belonged to her. She was the queen among them, and in her own way she ruled them.

xxxxxxxx

Galadriel's eyes flared as the magic overwhelmed her. The water sang as it filled the bowl and immediately its call pressed upon her. And then just as she had found the powers of the water to hold sway over her, she closed her eyes to the ache they created. It had been like this since the time she had first acquired the Ring. Nenya was the one tied most to water, and its call rose and fell like the waves on far-reaching shores. Such was the tie uniting Aman to Arda, the power built into the Ring. She could feel distant lands pulling her heart. It grew stronger each time she looked into her mirror.

She knew her time was not much longer. It had been once that she had not thought to return to that far land across the sundering sea. She had disobeyed the lords of that world and had never thought to be welcomed there again. She had instead turned her ambitions to Arda. Yet the desire for return had come to her as a trade off to the power granted by Nenya. The call was a constant to her, the yearning nigh intolerable. Her soul cried out for Home, the passion unrequited.

The water settled and she felt the ache calm. Still the distant motion on a faraway shoreline never ceased, and she could feel that movement within her like the pulsing beat of her heart.

She looked into the pool, watching the light flicker over its surface, creating the visions that formed there for her. She put her mind to her task, not directing the mirror, but giving it a starting place on its course, like dropping a leaf into a stream and then watching its meandering path from there. And like that leaf in the water, sometimes its direction would spin around, and sometimes its travels would be marred by another obstacle, its possibility of seeing its route made incomplete. This was how the mirror worked.

Her heart and mind sought memory of the young elf at the heart of this pursuit. A vision of Legolas shimmered across the surface of the mirror. Fair-hair flowed freely about his shoulders and she could see him singing. His heart was troubled and she felt his ache even through the distance of the mirror. _He suffers the sea,_ she thought, and she could empathize. But then the mirror shifted and she saw him again, earlier in his life, before the sea had taken him and she saw the pain there too. Even in a moment of jocularity, when comrades and friends surrounded him, the misery was in his eyes, hidden by youthful mirth.

She then saw him at duty, riding a roan stallion into the courtyard before his father's home. There was a look about him, as if he had dread for his task. But she saw it was not the moment itself for which he felt apprehension. There was a vastness to his sadness.

She could not recall this attribute attached to him when he had come as a member of the Fellowship. But then she realized that mourning masked other hurts, and Legolas had been broken by the loss of Gandalf then, as had all the members of his group.

The mirror cleared again, and this time it was the face of Thranduil she saw; he had been younger even than Legolas was now and she recognized the surroundings within the mirror's recall. She saw the palace halls they had kept in Hollin. And there she saw one she had not expected to see. Sauron. Sauron in his guise as Annatar. He embraced Thranduil and the affectionate emotion outwardly seemed real though she knew in truth it could not be. She shuddered at the deception in the scene.

And then the mirror shifted again and she saw orcs running and hiding, their faces kept low as the new sky began to lighten the horizon. In the next instance they were leaping from holes in the ground, swarming a grey stallion and its two riders. She did not recognize the riders as Legolas and the mirror moved before she could focus upon them.

It was fascinating and frightening, but like the leaf caught on a piece of driftwood, the mirror had gone astray. _Tell me of Legolas_, she reminded it, not so much pushing the leaf as stirring the water about it. She did not really know if the mirror would lead her to him.

There was Thranduil again, and though she started to object, she ceased when she saw him fingering a small box. He opened it and though she could not see the contents, his face belayed an expression of rapture as he reached for the thing held within.

She almost cried out when the image changed again, and she grew confused by the abrupt shift. This is what she had seen before: Gimli was bent before a figure that was half naked and covered in mud. Despite his wrecked appearance, it was Legolas she saw, long-limbed and unmoving. And though Gimli shook him, he lay docile and limp. She shuddered for the image was different now; the last time she had looked Legolas had been conscious. Now he was curled in upon himself and his eyes were sealed. She was not sure if he was alive in this image.

The mirror shifted once more, and this time she saw a face from times long ago. Faeldaer. The sky was dark and terrible with storm clouds looming, and she saw that he was fleeing. The field he had been running through melted into trees, but she could see he was on a slope and the land below was littered with a dark mass. _The attack upon Fangorn, _she thought, knowing what came after.

The mirror righted itself in the next moment. And this time, though Legolas was again in the smokey pool, the vision was odd and not what she would expect. Legolas was walking a path on a floating walkway over a pool of water. He looked handsome and graceful, clean and dressed in simple clothing she did not recognize; it was not Mirkwood garb. He was amid a cluster of willows, the trees creating a draped tent that cascaded into the water around him. Soft light filtered through the leaves and he glowed in a bath of green. But what startled her, what was strange, was that with him walked Faeldaer _-- Faeldaer? _In this vision none of the stresses of the sea-longing were born upon the young elf, and for the first time in all of these recollections he appeared happy.

Curious, she looked deeper, but that only caused the mirror to refocus, to shift. Suddenly the view was within the green water, gazing up. Sun sparkled on the surface. The water moved, and then it turned brown, muddy. And now there was Thranduil above the surface, standing upon a ledge with arms raised. Water was churning, rolling at his feet. And then it became the sea, and she saw nothing but endless waves and hopelessness. For a moment she was lost there, captured. But she turned the mirror again, beckoning it to change only to find the light from within fading, coming no more.

She stepped away from the bowl, shaken and moved. There were many things here she had not expected to see. Finding the sea certainly unsettled her; she tried to gather her composure as her feet led her away from the fountain. This leaf did follow a watery course.

And too, the vision of Legolas with Faeldaer was not one she would have expected. In fact it disturbed her greatly. It was wrong, for Legolas had not lived in the days of Faeldaer. The mirror was capable of projecting things that might come, but never had it created complete fantasy. Faeldaer was dead. She knew of no way that Legolas could be in that ancient elf's company.

She stepped aside, allowing her feet to wander the paths of her wood as her mind became wrapped in this mystery. It could be that the mirror told of a time far reaching, later in Aman, perhaps, when the two might meet. Yet the mirror had never shown her visions from that far land or future. How could Legolas walk with Faeldaer?

And then she considered an alternative: Could it be that Faeldaer was not dead?

She pushed her mind back, recalling those days of dread, ones she had just seen in her glass. _Faeldaer_, she thought. _Faeldaer_.

Faeldaer had been delayed in delivering Nenya to her. It had been planned that he would come, but foolishly the elf had taken the Ring to himself. She could guess at his reasons, but it really did not matter. What did matter was the mistake that came as a result of his presumptuous wants. He had donned Nenya, giving his place in hiding away to the Dark Lord. Thus, Sauron sought him out, his goal to ensnare Faeldaer in his power, just as it had been with Celebrimbor. Attack had fallen on Fangorn Forest then as the Dark Lord worked to create fear and subjugation. The innocent elves of Mírnen suffered for Faeldaer's mistake.

But Faeldaer realized his wrong, and more so that he had not the strength to wield Nenya. Celebrimbor had meant this particular Ring to be hers and in It he had put powers tailored to Galadriel's skills. Even without wearing It she could draw strength from It. But Faeldaer did not have this skill and realizing his mistake he had tried to rid himself of It. When Faeldaer fled Sauron and secretly delivered Nenya to her, she immediately used It. The power fit mightily because It had been made for her..

Commanding her forces forward, she had confronted Sauron in the next days, turning him away from Fangorn. In his wake she played witness to the decimation Sauron had created. Coming to the elven community's aid, Treebeard and his contingent of Ents had rallied valiantly against the Dark Lord. But it was not enough. Faeldaer had been at her side when they had come upon the wood. She had offered him sanctuary in her land but he had refused, fretting over his betrayal and insisting that he had to save his people -- if they still lived. He told her about the catapults and the granite rocks lobbed upon them. He told her about the crushing stone that had sealed the cave where his people and Narvi, had buried themselves. He wept openly when they came again upon the decimation Sauron had laid to the northern end of Fangorn Forest. By the time her army had arrived, a fog hung over the northernmost parts of the forest. Mírnen was gone, lost in a cloud of poisonous vapor that enshrouded it. It was only the appearance of her forces that had kept Sauron from spreading it further.

Mithtaur, Treebeard and others joined them then and when the nature of the cloud had been revealed, Faeldaer fell to the ground in a broken heap. Galadriel thought then that he would die of the hurt in his heart. She knew as well as he did that none could have survived the ill Sauron had delivered.

A battle was waged and no more could be said. At last Sauron broke and took flight going south and west. Galadriel followed, only noticing later that Faeldaer had not followed. When Sauron reached the other side of the mountains he turned north. It was there that he confronted the army of Celeborn and Elrond and was quickly surrounded. And it was there that Galadriel and her army turned back to offer their aid to Treebeard if they could.

Mithtaur was the one who told her of Faeldaer's demise. Wearied and ill, the Ent had tried to stop the elf-lord when he ran into the forest. Mithtaur followed for a time, but the vapors grew noxious and he could not stay. Faeldaer never returned.

The Ent mourned, for he would have gone on if he could have; he had loved the elves that were part of the region of his captaincy, and Faeldaer and Narvi he loved most especially. But the fog was impenetrable, the fumes of it deadly. Time and time again, over the coming days, he returned to his search, but none could live in that. That truth became apparent when months later the fog finally lifted and it was discovered that all the wood was dead.

The Ents along with a sickened Mithtaur attempted to dig at the site of the cave, but no ledge remained and it was only the slightest of them that could go near. The granite was torn away as best it could be, but she did not order her elves to dig for she did not think it safe and so no sign of a hollow became known to them. The cave the dwarves had excavated in times past was now gone and the elves and their dwarven friend had been buried in it. By her command, so it would remain.

Nothing was found of Faeldaer. She was certain he was dead but his body was not located. However, that news was not surprising. In death, an elven body does not long linger. It becomes one with the earth, as it should be.

But now, wandering the paths of her home, she wondered if it was possible Faeldaer had somehow escaped death and survived. Considering that no body had been found she now pondered the possibilities of his life given the image she had seen in her mirror. Perhaps he had found a safe place in the wood and had recovered there. But why had he not returned to the civilized world?

Still, any Ent in the wood, had Faeldaer been found, would have returned him to her. Treebeard had been horrified at the prospect of elven deaths occurring in his wood and she doubted he would have allowed any more to live there and flourish after such cruel harm. Further, his land had been hurt, as had Mithtaur. The Greywood Ent grew progressively grave in the months after the attack, taken to muttering to himself and wandering lost. Still, he went into the woods every few days, searching for Faeldaer without end.

But he said nothing of finding Faeldaer.

_No_, she told herself. _The circumstances do not add up. One of the Ents would have revealed him. They wanted him found as much as she did. It was not possible Faeldaer could be alive._

Yet somehow, unless the mirror had taken a very skewed course, Legolas' fate was tied to Faeldaer, and there too, so was Thranduil's. How it would come out she could not even guess. Strange were the workings of the mirror.

And so she wandered her path, alone and lost in her thoughts. None questioned or halted her progress for she was queen among them. Yet this was one directive she could not dictate. Some things she could not determine by will. The route of fate was ruled by powers greater than her.

**TBC**


	32. Words Spoken Aloud

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarien_

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty-One: Words Spoken Aloud_

He didn't know why he kept coming back to this place, but it was all he could think to do. For days now he had been drawn. Somehow he knew it to be right though every past act on his part would have overruled that fact were there anyone to judge. There were none and Thranduil was left only with his own knowledge that he acted outside himself. He had no one else to turn to though and so felt he had little choice; he had no friends he could confess his sins. And oh how he felt compelled to release his guilt. This place and the memories tied to it made him recall things he had long repressed. The thoughts pushed him to anguish. So it seemed appropriate that he should sink down before the frail figure on the bed and speak to him so that he might unburden his mind.

He looked at the unmoving dwarf. The thick beard was a bold and fiery cover, a stark contrast to the wan pallor beneath the ruddy hue. There was a handsome face beneath the mask of facial hair, strongly chiseled features and an intelligent brow. Thranduil could see this despite noting the dwarf's eyes that were deeply etched by dark circles. They belied the difference between mere sleep and wretched illness. Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of the small creature's barrel chest, he might appear dead. Small but rugged, the dwarf must be a foreboding sight in his true form. And he yet breathed. Thranduil knew that while he did there was still hope. Hope for the dwarf. Hope for his son.

He bowed his head, sorrow overtaking him again. Absently he stared at his hands as he twisted them in his lap. His eyes followed the ridges of his thumbs, but he was not really looking there. Instead his mind was pondering the mystery that had brought him here and his need to discard the doubts that plagued him more and more. Should he not be feeling the full effects of his confidence by now? His strength usually came to him swiftly once he succumbed to the urges his Passion demanded of him. Yet surety failed him this time. And he ached.

He glanced again at the dwarf, watching the small being with care. He knew what he was about to do, but it could only be made so long as the dwarf did not really hear him. He wanted -- nay, needed -- to speak his thoughts. With the memories, too much did he feel he should have guessed at Annatar's duplicitous nature. After all, he was an elf; he should have sensed the evil. But he didn't and this failure made him quake, for he still had difficulty believing anything of the villainy of Annatar. Thus he must speak, weigh out the truth, and purge himself of his guilt. But he did not want his words to truly be heard and judged. Or did he?

He watched the dwarf sleep. It was the first time he had really considered a dwarf in repose. Typically he tried to avoid dwarves whenever he could. His family stories of Doriath alone were reason enough to find all of these stout creatures to be untrustworthy.

Somehow though, Legolas trusted these beings... or perhaps just this being. Yet that was enough to bring Thranduil here to the Healing House seeking Gimli out. If Legolas could find trust in the dwarf, so must he.

"It must be understood... I did not think Annatar an evil influence just as truly I did not think he would come to my wood. I saw Him as my friend, and that was all," Thranduil murmured, eyeing the dwarf to see if he would notice that the king spoke and feeling a sense of comfort when he did not. "Besides, words are oft said. It does not always mean they will be adhered to."

He did not feel completely at ease to speak as he did now. At the same time, he knew to say nothing was only going to make him feel at greater unease.

"I remember when Annatar came to my forest home. As you can imagine, I was completely stunned. It was a surprise to have him appear to me so many years after," the elf continued feeling a little more comfortable when he saw the dwarf did not respond.

He thought back on his tale, sinking into his chair and recalling the days in between, when he had learned of Hollin's fate at the hands of Sauron but before the darkness had descended on to his own realm.

Greenwood the Great was aptly named in those days. Indeed, the forest was vast, and indeed did it hold many places of intrigue. But under the rule of Oropher and with the friendship of Men, the roads were clear and commerce was good between the races there. It was everything, Oropher, the elf king had aspired to make it when he had settled into these lands after migrating from the fallen walls of Doriath. One would think that, given all that had occurred in his former services to Thingol, Oropher would be suspicious of those not his own kin. However, the opposite was true. Oropher's heart was kind, and he tried always to be fair to those he met.

As a newcomer to Greenwood, he had won the appreciation of the Silvans who had already resided there -- done so without a king or leader of any sort. The good turn came mostly because Oropher did not impose himself upon them. He brought only good intentions and great skills in uniting folk, and over the course of mere short years, they rewarded him by giving Oropher the power to rule them.

In these first years, Oropher King had established much to make the realm of the green forest great. Trade was strong and the peoples that lived there or traveled through the wood found the elves hospitable, good-hearted, and joyous of life. The Silvans remained reclusive and reserved when kept to their own, but they followed the actions of their Sindar brethren when the company was mixed. No trouble marred the woods, and unlike the western lands of Eriador, the eastern realm was untainted and clean. The War of the Elves and Sauron had not touched Greenwood.

Of course, Oropher supported the efforts where he could. He had sent aid to his kin in the other realms, for the fall of Eregion had been heartbreaking. Oropher's cousin, Celeborn, fought at the front and there were times when the king considered riding into the battle himself. Ridding the lands of evil had been a cause he had fought in the age past, and Oropher supported all that was needed to bring peace.

But the issues of the War were shrouded in mystery, and news did not pass easily into the vales on the other side of the Hithaeglir. This of course was to keep any enemies from learning tactics of the elves, but it also served to keep Greenwood as a whole without clear understanding of the events that took place. Oropher, being king, had his sources for greater news, but even what he heard was shady and unclear. All he would say was that there were secrets hidden in the actions of those that fought and for the well-being of all, those secrets must be kept. Thus Thranduil was left ignorant of true darkness and had only ancient tales to fortify his imagination and little reality to clarify what was truly happening. It would be many years before he would understand what betrayal and treachery were.

He served dual duty in his father's kingdom then. Because the woods were safe, Thranduil was not required take a military role in his association with the court, but the prince, finding his confidence both boosted and in need of fortification after his years in Eregion, chose a military appointment to sate his desire. Oropher required that he serve in the court as well. Thus, Thranduil held two posts, one as a guardsman and another as a statesman. Neither was a full occupation, so it could be said Thranduil had the best of all worlds, sitting a tall mount and patrolling the forest roads in the warmer months, and serving in companionable grace within his father's palace in the cooler months.

It was during his summer duties when the first encounter with change could be traced. It would be a long time before Thranduil would realize that this was where it began, for nothing was abrupt in the progress that followed. One could say darkness moved slowly, and it did. Still, Thranduil recognized the fool that he was when all the pieces were laid, and in the dawning of realization, he learned it was he who had invited the shadow of evil to live within his own realm.

He was patrolling the roads with two others in his company, Nelon and Merenor, tall elves, brothers, of a good family. They had seen wagons and travelers making their way either east or west in trade or settlement. Such was typical, and the traffic on the road was not unusual. The elves, trying to remain unobtrusive, kept a path that paralleled the road, so few noticed them as they strode past. This was part of the way with the wood. The elves did not inhibit nor did they make themselves readily known. In fact, some would say they melted into the scenery. The elves did nothing in particular though, simply acting their role as caretakers, watchers, guardians, and all could say that their way was peaceful. All knew the elves were responsible for the easy travel on the road and it was not unusual for the elves to find tokens of gratitude along that route. Any substantial gifts were placed in the coffers of the court, but the foodstuff and less precious items were divvied among the elves on duty.

It was on one particularly pleasant day that they came across a cask. It was placed on a stone base at the side of the road that had become one the typical offering sites travelers used, so none could say it had fallen from a wagon or was lost merchandise. It was an obvious gift to the elves, for it was filled with a golden wine, and elves were known to love good wines. And being of a perishable nature, the three elves decided to take it for themselves. There was nothing ill-mannered in this; it was completely accepted among the guardsmen's companies. Finding such treasures was one of the reasons patrol duty was a sought-after task. To allay any accusations of special treatment, Thranduil went through the rotations just like any other soldier. It was sheer luck that brought Thranduil to this moment when he would be with the patrol that found the wine. Or so he thought.

They waited until the evening when they made their camp to open the cask. The horses had been watered and brushed down after their days ride; they were penned off within a small green near the camp and were quietly grazing. Thranduil and his companions had made a fire and were roasting the hares they had caught earlier that day. Being without proper tableware, they emptied their skins of water and dipped them into the cask to fill them with the golden drink.

It wasn't until after their supper was complete that they started to notice the effects of the wine. The world became a warmer place, and Thranduil loosened his clothes for the comfort of it. He noticed his head was both heavier and lighter, and it was easy to laugh over the more trivial of matters. His one companion, Merenor,was having difficulty untying his bedroll from his gear, and this created much mirth between the three of them. But lingering at the back of Thranduil's mind, as he laughed with his friends, there was a subtle recognition of the flavor of the wine that sent trepidation into his core.

Their laughter pushed aside his concerns though, and for a time he and the others enjoyed their good spirits. Their eyelids had grown heavy and their bodies were feeling quite weighted with the numbing effect of the wine when the horses nickered in worry. An answering whinny told them others drew near, and the elves tried to stand, doing what they could to pull themselves into sobriety though they staggered where they stood. Thranduil reached for his bow, and the other two followed. In the pen, Thranduil's horse raised his head and mustered a warning snort before running a circle around his perimeter, clearly agitated.

The elf's hand tightened around the weapon as he started toward the pen to calm the animals. In the next moment, four riders came upon them and, without waiting for invitation, dismounted. Thranduil gazed at them through blurred vision, wondering if he should draw his bow. He shook his head, trying to clear it. One of the figures stood staring at him and he found himself dumbstruck. These were Men, he recognized that, but the one was almost incandescent, like an elf who had seen the Light of the Trees in Aman. He glowed as if a light came from behind him and his beauty was unmistakable.

And then the others in the company came behind him, and the light faded.

Thranduil blinked, wondering if he had just imagined the apparition. But then he thought no more on it as a smile broke over his face. His grip on his weapon loosed as he took one step then another. _Annatar. _

"What... what are you doing here?" he gasped, truly glad to see his old friend before remembering himself and all that he had been told of the Man.

The golden-haired man smiled, gently. Sadly. "Thranduil," he said, taking the steps needed then to close the distance between them. But the young elf stepped away, the smile falling away from his face.

"No. I should not -- You should not...," he dodged away.

"Thranduil? Do you know these men?" Nelon asked, apparently doing his utmost to keep the slur out of his voice.

Thranduil glanced at his two companions, seeing that their sobriety was much compromised and knew he was in little better shape. He did not necessarily fear the Man, but what he had been told in the years since leaving Eregion contradicted what he had known from his own experience.

"I do," he answered Nelon concisely, then turned steely eyes on Annatar -- or should he name him Sauron? He took the Man's arm and brusquely led him a short distance away. Tersely he said in a voice kept low, "You should not be here."

"Thranduil, please," the golden one pleaded speaking also in a hushed voice. "Tell me you do not believe what has been said about me."

The elf's heart leapt. He felt unsure of what he should think, feel or do. He turned away. "I should not speak with you, for you are Sau--"

"Do not say it! I beg of you!"

"What would you have me say then?"

"Thranduil?" Nelon asked, taking up a defensive stance as he eyed the other men who accompanied the one Thranduil spoke with. Merenor at his side turned to cover his brother's back.

"Say that you pay no mind to rumors," Annatar beseeched noticing too the two warriors and their change.

But Thranduil was confused and could find no charity. He knew he should sense a greater power from the Man, evil emanating from the depths of his soul, but he could discern nothing in his heartsong. Still, Sauron was a known fraudster. That knowledge was what drew Thranduil to hiss, "Be gone!"

"Thranduil, look at me! I am exactly as you knew me to be! I am your friend!" He was close enough that he was able to put a hand gently to his sleeve.

Nelon and Merenor snapped into action and Thranduil realized they had arrows poised upon the man. In the same instant, the men in Annatar's company drew swords from their sheaths.

Seeing all this, Annatar drew away, his hands opened out before him in quiet surrender. With a nod to his men, the swords were lowered and Thranduil indicated the same to his own.

"Tell me why should I believe you," he argued. "You are a deceiver."

But Annatar drew near again. "Thranduil," he said, a hand on his shoulder, and the warmth of that touch moved the elf enough to turn into the direction. Softly he spoke, and the voice was the one he had felt such trust and affection for in times past. "Look at me. Do I appear a deceiver?"

Thranduil looked into the face, and there he saw the familiar blue eyes and handsome countenance. But he also saw a day's rugged growth of beard, eyes marred with deepening creases, and the touches of grey in the full blond mane. He saw eyes filled with fatigue and hurt. He saw a Man -- a mortal Man.

In a whisper he asked, "How can I believe you?"

"Have I ever lied to you? Others have spoken of me, even in our time together, but have you ever found those words to be sound?" the man asked.

Thranduil was torn, but he realized the truth of what was being asked of him. Annatar had never done anything to hurt Thranduil. In fact, he had been truer than the elf's mentors. He swallowed his misery as he found the courage to speak. "Annatar?"

The man sighed, relief shining in his eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "Thank the Valar!"

The suddenness of his next actions astonished even Thranduil. In an instant he held the man in an embrace. "But how?" he asked in a shuddering voice. "How?"

Their voices were still low and Thranduil felt certain Nelon and Merenor could not hear them speak. Still, Annatar's voice was loud in his ear. Holding the embrace he explained, "I was robbed! My identity -- he stole it! Sauron used my appearance to gain him entrance to Hollin city."

"I do not understand," Thranduil said, confused, drawing slightly away.

The man's expression was pained. "He knew I had friends there and He played them, luring them into believing He was as I. He fooled them and made them believe his deception! And those who witnessed what came thought all was _my_ doing!" The man's voice broke and tears brimmed at his eyes.

"When? I do not follow--"

"After you left. You left and so did I. I went north." He nodded to the men in his company. "But Sauron, he came to Hollin. He came disguised as me."

Thranduil sighed. Should he believe this? At the same time, it was easy to tug the man even tighter into his embrace. His heart was beating rapidly, and all sense of inebriation was gone from him. All he could picture was the ruse his friend had endured. Thranduil had experienced betrayal himself and he felt in that moment that he could understand such a thing. The mystery of the act did not seem odd to him and the powers granted by the Valar would not cause him to question such a ruse. Later perhaps he might question that he believed so easily, but in the moment all prior thoughts of distrust melted away. In the moment, sympathy dominated him.

They stood like that for a good moment, and when they finally released their grasp they gazed into each other's faces. "My friend," Annatar said, sinking to his knees, his action a cross between a deep bow and something of relief and gratitude weighing him to the ground. "You believe me."

The elf nodded, catching at his friend's elbows. Their eyes met. "Yes! Yes, I do. O my friend!"

Thranduil felt as if he were suddenly drunk again. He fell backward, and mirth suddenly burst from them both.

"My lord?" he heard. And then he realized his comrades were still standing, watching, intent. He had forgotten them for the moment, but now that the gravity of the situation had eased, he wondered what they must think of what they saw.

He turned to them. "Please, be at ease. There was some confusion but now it is resolved. This is my friend." He thought to say Annatar's name, but realized he had not uttered it audibly yet and wondered what Nelon and Merenor might think if they were to realize who was in their presence. Despite the fact that Thranduil might believe the man, the stories told of him were not kind and at best they would be wary.

Then he gazed at the men in Annatar's company and asked, "Who is it you bring?"

"Friends as well." His smile told them to be at ease. "Please, put away your weapons, all of you. There will be no harm done here." His men smiled feebly, dipping their heads as if realizing how menacing they must appear. Then looking at Thranduil again he asked, "Might we make our camp here?"

Thranduil immediately came to his feet, recognizing his poor manners. "Nelon, Merenor, make these men welcome." Looking off into the woods, he glanced to Annatar as he said, "Might I speak privately with you a moment more?"

The man followed, offering no questions as he trailed behind. Thranduil led the man to where the horses were penned. "What I heard near broke me. I could not imagine you capable of such horrors. All I could think was that those who passed such rumors did not know you as I did," Thanduil said.

Annatar seemed lost for words. "My gratitude... I cannot express how much I feel. I had hoped -- And now you give me courage --"

Thranduil chuckled again. "After all these years, I had never thought to see you again."

The man smiled knowingly, his lacking faded. "You had given me leave to come once."

The elf nodded, remembering the occasion. "Is that why are you here? You recalled my fumbling invite."

"Is it wrong that I come?"

Thranduil frowned then, realizing the situation. "You know what is said of you."

Annatar's brow furrowed as if he read rejection in Thranduil's reply. "You wish me to leave?"

But the elf did not mean to offend. He merely felt offguard and ill-prepared. "Nay, of course not," he fumbled. And yet he had to consider the reality of the situation. He pointed to the camp. "But what am I to say... to them? To my people? They will not understand if I give them your name," Thranduil argued.

"I came because you once told me that I should," Annatar feebly reminded him.

The elf sighed, hanging his head. "And you choose now to do this?"

"I could use your help. I seek a place to live," Annatar answered, and it seemed his voice held a note of desperation.

Thranduil paused. The idea startled him. "You think to come here and live? Permanently?" He knew he had suggested as much in better days, but that was when he had felt heartsick over losing a dear friend. Many years had passed since then and the circumstances were far different. True, he missed his friend, but he had learned contradicting tales. Further, he was just now growing accustomed to seeing one he thought long gone from him. He had not expected to see Annatar again in his lifetime and the shock of that made him uncertain and clumsy for words. "Nay, nay," he returned. "My father would not allow such a thing."

"But you believe in my innocence, do you not? Could you not argue my case?" the man asked, placing a gentle hand on the elf's arm. It was too soon to ask such a thing and Thranduil was startled at the impetuous request. Annatar had never seemed so desperate in his days in Eregion and that alone sent warning tremors through the elf's psyche.

Outwardly he simply shook his head. "Regardless of my arguments, my father will not compromise his reputation for yours," Thranduil replied.

Annatar seemed not to notice Thranduil's struggle with his request. "It need not be a long stay. And it is a big wood..." the man said, tossing out the idea as if that was all he need say to make the idea feasible.

The elf did not wish to hurt his friend nor did he want to admit he might be an inept advocate for the man's case. "Perhaps if you were to venture to the south," he suggested in an open-handed gesture. "It is a large wood and there are Men's colonies there..." Thranduil offered.

Annatar neither replied nor moved. Instead he stoically stared at Thranduil. A long minute passed like this and Thranduil felt as if he were being tested, that if he reacted he might fail. And then a small smile began to work the corners of the man's mouth. His eyes broke contact and he glanced down, finding the ground more worthy his attention. He nodded then and said, "Of course. You are right. I will do that."

Thranduil sobered, shaking his head. He was not convinced the man would let the conflict go so easily. Gazing back at the camp, he argued, "Truly, I mean not to inconvenience you. Tell me what am I to say! These men are my friends. If I fear convincing them, how am I to convince the whole of my kingdom?"

Annatar smiled sincerely, shadows hiding the whole of his face. Thranduil could see the hollows that had come to form beneath his friend's eyes and the aging that was starting to show. It startled him. He remembered Annatar as a younger man. "Peace. You need not trouble yourself more," Annatar spoke. "You have said all I wanted to hear. I merely needed to know I still had your trust. You have given it. I will trouble you no more on meager matters. Come." He began to walk back to the camp.

"But we are not done speaking," Thranduil answered, stubbornly rooting his feet and feeling horribly guilty for not rallying to his friend's aid. Could he admit he felt a sense of relief that Annatar was now withdrawing his request for Thranduil's petition?

Annatar stepped near again, hooking his arm across Thranduil's shoulder. "Do not fret. Introduce me to your friends as Hirandir. They believe in you -- " This was said with a teasing shove. It was reminiscent of the way it had always been between them, Thranduil the young student and Annatar his world-wise teacher. "They will accept anything you tell them."

Thranduil hesitated, but he had to admit the familiarity of such encouragements warmed him. He missed his friend.

"They will not question me," Annatar continued. "They will not question you. Look. Already they make merry with my companions."

Thranduil's eyes went to the camp. The elves had pulled out the wine cask and the men were dipping their tins into it. A chuckle of mirth echoed out into the wood, punctuating the comment.

"Come," Annatar urged, and Thranduil felt the weight of his argument slipping away. He felt his friend's steps leading him and he followed. Before he realized it, he was seated in front of the fire and drinking once again. And just as Annatar had said, his friends did not question him on the man. They did not question him on any of them.

With some pressing Thranduil came to realize the identities of those in Annatar's group. They were not just men but Lords among Men. Annatar traveled in good company and his new name was fitting. Hirandir -- Wandering Lord.

The men were like his friend, at ease, powerful, handsome. Still, he did not speak much in their presence, watching more than being watched. And they in turn gazed at Annatar, as if in obeisance to him.

Drink was plied to him again, and eager to give up his worries, Thranduil complied. He soon was a part of their merry-making, and try though he might to remain quiet, his laughter was mixed with the voices of his friends. He mingled his thoughts among those of these men, sharing tales and enjoying the headiness brought on by the wine.

The night faded from his mind, and he awoke gazing at the ashes that had been their fire the night before. Nelon and Merenor still slept where they had fallen over in their drunken stupors. The Men were gone.

No signs of them remained, and not even the steps of their horses were visible to Thranduil. When Nelon and Merenor awoke, they said nothing of the encounter, and Thranduil, feeling slightly ashamed for so readily accepting Annatar again into his companionship, did not press them for memory of the encounter. It was then that Thranduil began to think his reunion with Annatar had been a dream. Of course elves did not dream like that, and of course his friends merely felt shame for their own drunkenness, but in retrospect, it seemed almost that -- a dream. He wondered at what that said of him. He worried for the ease he had shown, believing in a friend that was considered a betrayer by all others in the elven world.

But also he began to question whether the tales told of Sauron were as true as had been professed. Sauron had the power to shift his shape. It was not inconceivable that he could play into the guise of Annatar.

"My father had said that there were secrets hidden in the actions of those that fought. I began to think this was one of them. I grew to believe my friend had been made the scapegoat. Such an explanation was certainly the easiest to believe. Though the event with Hirandir seemed almost a dream, I came to accept my old friend had returned to me. And I was glad for it."

Thranduil looked up again at the dwarf, not realizing he had spoken much of his thoughts aloud. But he was more surprised to find the dwarf was awake and watching him.

For a moment he could not speak. The sick dwarf's eyes belied his fatigue and illness. Still, Thranduil had to ask, "How much of what I just said do you recall?"

Gimli blinked, looking fatigued, yet maintaining his gaze. "I heard every word," he whispered in a gravely voice.

"I feared as much," Thranduil gasped and he knew there would be no escaping a confrontation with this creature.

"Did the strange glow about his figure not give you clue as to his true guise?" Gimli asked, and in this question Thranduil could see the dwarf had indeed heard his words.

"He was my friend," the elf weakly defended.

He was startled however when the dwarf's strong hand gripped his. At first he thought the dwarf might be trying to draw him near, to force his notice on something he might say, but the elf saw instead that it was his hand that Gimli was trying to get a better look at. Thranduil recoiled, weakly pulling away, but the dwarf's hand tightened over his.

"I should seek a healer," the elf said, thinking the behavior odd and that it was likely some outlying remnant of the dwarf's injury.

But the dwarf, pale and sickly in his appearance still, did not relinquish his hold and instead murmured soft words almost under his breath. Elf ears are keen, but even Thranduil could not make out what was said. But when he noticed Gimli's brow furrowed in a scowl he came to realize it was likely the dwarf had uttered some kind of curse in his own strange language.

Again the elf tried to pull away. This time he succeeded in freeing his hand. But the scowl on the dwarf's face remained.

"I had hoped it might be different," the small figure growled.

Ignoring the words, Thranduil stepped out to the hall. When he had come into the sick room, there had been a wealth of attendants on hand, but now there were none. True, he had willed them away when he had first arrived so that he might make his confession but he had not really expected his desire for privacy to be so wholly fulfilled. He sent out a vocal plea. "Aid! Here now!"

Behind him he heard the sound of the dwarf choking and immediately fear took him back to the bedside. He watched for a moment as the small figure retched. And then contrary to his revulsion, he reached forward, propping the dwarf up and to the side to help ease his sickness. He found his stomach twisting as he watched, the vile wreck of the scene, forcing his head away. But he held tight, strange compassion for the small creature overruling his desire to flee. It was the heat of the dwarf's skin that moved him. The frailty of a life so small set grim reminder to him of the day he had held his son's body in a similar way, heat also there.

The dwarf held to his bedding, closing his eyes as the sickness left him and rolling to his back again when he was done. The illness did not seem to deter his strange talk however. He gazed up at the elf through watery eyes and said in a weary and choked voice, "Legolas had given me clues but I had hoped the source might be something other than this."

Thranduil looked over his shoulder but still there was no attendant. In answer to the dwarf he said, "I do not know what you speak of."

Yet the dwarf went on, wiping the sickness away from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I had thought it perhaps a trinket you might have found in one of your father's treasure troves."

Thranduil rested a hand upon the dwarf's brow and whispered, "Be still. Someone will be here momentarily."

But Gimli pushed the hand away, his eyes suddenly angry as he croaked, "Do not touch me! You will not sully me with your powers. I know what it is that you try to do!"

The elf took a step away, startled and confused by this reaction. Curiosity piqued his attention as he came to consider the words were not just the strange ramblings of an ill being. "And what is it you think I might be doing?" he asked with wide eyes.

Gimli spat his reply. "It would have been better had it been an heirloom from Oropher's passing; _that_ I might have been able to accept. History tells of lesser dwarves having succumbed in that same manner. But according to this last tale, it is clear that He _gave_ It to you!"

Thranduil shook his head, trying not to put meaning into what the dwarf said. He wished the scene to end, for the dwarf to once again succumb to his fatigue.

But Gimli merely shook his head as if shaking away a pesky insect. He scowled as he said, "You now practically confess it. And you accepted _It_! That I now see! O Mahal, I had hoped it not so! But Legolas was right! You are a malignancy!"

Anger and trepidation twisted in Thranduil's gut. Something he had not wanted to consider was now making a home in his heart. He stammered in reply, not wanting to say too much for fear he might be wrong in his assumptions. "You had a bad injury. Your thoughts are confused. Let me go now to find the healers so they might help you!"

The dwarf's voice came strong in the next breath, and it seemed clear the fallen figure was gaining more and more of his strength. "How long have you had It, King?"

Thranduil heard footsteps coming and he thought perhaps he might be saved from this interrogation. Again calling over his shoulder he desperately cried, "Here!"

"Sauron _gave_ It to you and now I see It with my own eyes. I had hoped I might have imagined incorrectly and the reasons for Legolas' torment came from sources other than _this_. But it makes perfect sense to me now, knowing what I do of these things." The dwarf's eyes were clear and filled with hate. Thranduil suddenly felt his earlier pity for this figure misguided.

Panicked, Thranduil called out, willing others of any sort to enter the room. "Here! Please!"

In the next moment he wished it not so, for he found his stomach tighten in suffering humility as the dwarf mustered the words that would plague him the rest of the night and next day.

The healer and several attendants were suddenly in the room, closing the space off from its intimacy. But the conversation between elf and dwarf was not done. Though Thranduil thought himself escaped, the dwarf grabbed his hand, using it to leverage the elf near. And then, swift as only a warrior could be, Gimli had his other hand at the collar of Thranduil's robe and the elf was compelled to bow low to the small figure. In that instant Thranduil understood there was yet more the dwarf would say.

At the very least it seemed Gimli had decided he might yet keep what he knew of the elf a secret. Thranduil would later be grateful for that. But for the moment the dwarf stared into Thranduil's eyes. Barely to be heard by any other, Gimli then whispered, "Regardless of how It came, I must know."

Thranduil shuddered, his revulsion coming not from the contact but from a dread he dared not face. The truth lay bare before them but the dwarf seemed not to care anything of the elf's humility.

"Tell me, King Thranduil," Gimli hissed. "How long has it been that you have possessed a Dwarf Ring of Power?"

**TBC**

I would like to wish a Happy New Year to all! I will see you with a new chapter in two weeks time (ooh, my muse is so happy these days, but please keep him fed; leave a review).


	33. Awakening

**A/N:** Happy Birthday to me! And like a Hobbit, I come with a present for you… ta-da! It's a new chapter. A long one too. Enjoy!

** Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty: Awakening_

After the healers came, Thranduil fled and Gimli, thoroughly exhausted by his encounter with the elf king, fell back into a sleep that might be thought a return to his coma. Yet Gimli was healing and he was more aware. Foremost he felt, even in dreams, the forbidding presence of time and he was certain he must wake soon if his friend was to be saved. Yet it took three more tries before Gimli finally managed to come to full waking.

The first time had been when another dream of Legolas had disturbed his sleep. In it he saw his friend walking on a platform that cantered over a body of still water; Legolas was laughing, talking to someone that appeared no more than a shadow in a fog. Gimli was there, nearby, viewing it all from an outer shore. The dream turned ill as he called to Legolas over and over again; the elf did not seem to hear him even though his voice had grown progressively louder with each call. He watched then as Legolas drew back, leaning against the platform's rail; his face showed the joy of being caught up in pleasurable conversation. But then the elf stopped, pausing as if uncertain of something. His eyes took on a strange look and Gimli was uncertain what was happening. And then Legolas tilted his head, arching his back over the rail. His eyes closed while his hands came half up, and to the dwarf it looked as if his friend gasped in either surprise or pain. And as this was happening, a shadow drew near, moving close and wrapping about the elf. He saw Legolas' head roll back and the elf was completely enveloped in the shadow. Gimli kept calling to his friend, but still there was no sign he had been heard. And then, as Legolas was consumed by the shadow's embrace, he saw his friend disappear from his sight. The shadow covered Legolas over and then he was gone. Gone.

He managed to lift his lids pulling away from the dream then, but the light was bright, his head ached, and he felt overly warm. He immediately closed his eyes against these discomforts and found himself pulled back into sleep.

It was only much later, when he had cohesive thought, that he put all his attempts at wakefulness together. Yet when he made a second attempt, he was aware that he was making the effort, and even in his muddled mind he felt that was progress.

This attempt had come with the urging of another. He had been lifted into a halfway sitting position, and an arm was wrapped around his shoulders. His head rested on this person's shoulder, and he realized he had little strength to hold it up on his own. But another was speaking and hands urged his face around, parting his lips as a cup was placed there.

"That is it. Good," Galadriel's voice said, as a cool, clean liquid flowed into his mouth. But it hurt to swallow and he winced.

"Gently," she soothed, and he realized he must have tried to push away. "It will heal you."

At first he was pleased to realize it was the fair lady who cared for him. Her voice was like the trilling sound of bells. _So beautiful, _he thought. He sighed, relaxing into her hold and giving her complete credit for the withdrawal of the pain in his skull. She was his salvation.

But then he realized that she had been with him before and recollection of such came to him. It was strange to be so confused in his thoughts that he could not immediately recall her attending him. That bothered him. And the fact that she was attending him at all bothered him as well. He felt sudden humiliation for appearing so weak. To his great surprise tears filled his eyes as these feelings overwhelmed him. He hated his incapacity and he could feel a sob escape him.

That little action mortified him. He was crying! Dwarves did not cry! But just thinking it made the tears flow even more.

But Galadriel -- Aüle bless her -- seemed to pay no notice to this and he could hear the smile in her voice. "A little more," she said, and he understood she was talking of the drink. "It will help you. I imagine the next time you wake you will feel much restored."

As if that were a wishful thought, he found himself unable to remain awake, even should he want it otherwise. His mind again melted away into nothing.

The third and final attempt came with the interruption of two raised voices from another room.

"Maps! Supply them and I will try to discern where to go!"

"Cousin, mind yourself! Were I to say the Greenwood was a destination, would that be a narrow enough target? It is a vast space and no such maps exist. It will not be so simple."

"She says Fangorn! Give me more information and I will find my way alone. I grow weary of this waiting!"

"You go in search of a threading tool within a farmer's thatch. Show more patience! He will wake soon enough, and then we might know."

"I begin to doubt more definitive answers will come, Celeborn. Given my encounter before, I do not trust his mind."

_Celeborn. Greenwood. Fangorn. _And with that he remembered clearly where he was and why he was there. He realized his body and knew someone was rewrapping a bandage about his arm though he barely would have noticed it if not for the voices waking him.

"The trees speak in Fangorn. They will tell us where to look," he heard Thranduil say.

"If you would but wait you might have a guide to lead you."

"I would rather put my faith in the trees," the elf king groused.

Gimli could refrain no longer. He had to speak. "The trees will not tell," he whispered, finding his strength limited to this.

He heard a gasp from above him, and then a hand at his side. It reached and long, slender fingers twined with his.

"Gimli."

He had yet to open his eyes, but he could hear the movements of others and could sense eyes upon him and a gathering where he lay. He knew who held his hand, and that gave him a place to focus his words. His mind was still foggy with the details of how exactly he came to be here but he knew he must tell her what was first in his mind. His voice was yet a croak; still he said, "The trees will not tell for they do not know where Legolas has gone."

"He speaks!" someone further in the room exclaimed, but his mind remained focused on the comfort Galadriel offered. This time he was not embarrassed by her attention and he was glad of it for he had no desire to shed tears before her again.

She leaned in closer to stroke a hand across his cheek while the hands of what was no doubt a healer grasped his wrist to count his pulse beats. The lady softly asked. "Might you open your eyes?"

The dwarf found subtle humor in this request. "I shall make the attempt. You will forgive me but I have had limited success doing so previously." His lids opened without fighting him, and though he blinked through his momentary blindness, he knew he had finally achieved a consciousness that felt real and solid.

And then she was at the center of his vision. "Better," she proclaimed. "How do you feel?"

The world was spinning, and he did not want to mention the pain of a headache that felt like it had lived even in his dreams. Instead he said, "I feel like I've been abed for too long." He hated how coarse his voice sounded, but he noted that his throat hurt less for the speaking.

She released his hand, and seeming to understand his discomfort, poured something into a cup. She brought it to his lips as the healer helped to raise the dwarf's shoulders from the bed. The cool drink was a gift to his parched throat. Immediately he felt better for it. Indeed, she was the instrument of his healing.

He turned his head slightly to indicate he had had his fill. When the cup was brought away, he was able to note the others present in the room. Beyond the Lady and the hovering form of the healer he saw Lord Celeborn and Thranduil. He gazed at the elf king, recognizing his friend in the other's features. It would be easier to hate if Thranduil did not bear such a striking resemblance to one he felt such camaraderie, but he recalled fully their prior conversation and used that to steel his feelings, now coming fully to life. He warred with himself over whether the elf king's presence was a good thing or not. Whereas all his sympathies and concerns were turned to Legolas, for this elf he felt a flood of disdain. Here too was another reason to be grateful there were no tears this time.

"You dare come before me?" he asked Thranduil. Disgust laced his voice though it was thin with weakness. He did not care. All should know his hatred for this vile lord. Vividly he recalled the elf's escape from his inquisition the moment the healer's had entered the room before and he used this as guide for his further admonition. "You never answered my earlier question."

The elf's eyes went wide, but then coolly he replied, "I know not what you speak of."

So Thranduil was going to pretend ignorance? They would see about that.

Warily, Gimli looked to Galadriel. "What is he doing here?"

"I asked him here--" Galadriel began to speak but the elf king spoke over her.

"Never mind my purpose, Dwarf," Thranduil said, any inclination toward an amicable reply lost in that phrase. It was obvious there would be no kind resolve between them. "I've waited too long for niceties. Tell me of my son."

There was an aggression very unlike that of an elf in the notes of those words. Normally there was a mellow cadence in the way they spoke that made all elves appear placid, sometimes merry in their manner, even when they were being terse. He had seen it in Legolas and Gimli had noted it on his arrival in Rivendell as well. It was there too when the Fellowship had come to Lothlorien. The effect elf-speak had on his friends and companions was a softening of tensions. When elves spoke, calm was evoked.

Yet with Thranduil, that quality was missing. It was the Ring that did this, Gimli decided, glancing as he did at the bauble he knew would don the elf's finger. He wondered then that no one else would notice the effect, even if they could not see the Ring.

"In due time, Thranduil," Celeborn interjected, edging himself between the Mirkwood elf and Gimli and thus ending the bold display between them.

The elf kings eyes slid to his kindred and there was tension in his jaw. Gimli caught his gaze as it roamed back to him and he saw many thoughts behind those eyes. He thought if he stared there long enough he might almost read them.

Thranduil breathed deeply, obviously trying to calm himself. He spoke slowly, as if to a child, and Gimli schooled his own anger as he listened. "I have no desire to wait any more. Tell me the whereabouts of my son and I will be on my way; you need not suffer my presence and can enjoy your recovery without me."

Gimli chose to ignore the masked aggression in the words and gazed instead at the healer and Galadriel. He asked, "How long have I been as such?"

The Lady and the healer exchanged glances, and then the healer replied, "You were in the care of this House for five days."

Galadriel finished, "And I have been seeing to your well-being for nine days more since. Two days ago you woke for the first time."

"A fortnight?" Gimli gasped in surprise at the lateness of his recovery. He knew it had been long but not so long as that. But even as he stirred the slightest amount with that news, a wave of dizziness came over him, and he gripped the bedsheets to hold himself steady. Thinking of humility, he remembered this feeling from the time he had awoken to Thranduil and he had no desire to repeat the incident.

Spots danced before his eyes and he felt the heavy throb of that looming headache beckoning him. He closed his eyes to ward off the accompanying nausea. He realized sweat had formed upon his brow, and when he reached a shaky hand to it he noted a bandage that was wrapped further around his skull. He opened his eyes as his sight began to harden and allowed his fingers to explore. He winced at a tender spot on the side of his head and thought, _So that is the reason I remained insensate as long as I did._

"You suffered a rather severe blow," the healer was saying.

Gimli remembered Greywood's sudden violence and the chaos of storm, flood, mud and pain. "We were attacked," he said.

"Who did this? Where were you?" Thranduil questioned.

"You need to move gently, for you have grown weak in the time you have been ill," the healers words crossed over the kings.

"Fangorn Forest," Gimli tried to answer.

"This we know. Was it orcs? Where--?" the elf king was asking.

"Thranduil, give him peace!" Celeborn admonished.

"It will be some time before you can claim recovery. A few weeks at least," the healer continued. But Gimli felt trapped between the cascading words.

"Legolas does not have a few weeks," he muttered, thinking of his nightmarish dreams and his fears for his friend. He felt his head spinning.

"No, he does not," Galadriel agreed, and again she put the cup to his lips. "This will help you return to health faster, I think," she said.

He drank again. The liquid felt pure and replenishing to his body. Immediately his illness was dulled and he remembered his earlier thoughts in praise of her.

"Thank you," he said, and he found that he had strength of his own to raise and lower his head. He used his own hand to draw the cup to his lips. "What is this tonic?"

"No tonic. It is merely water," she said, but Celeborn placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Nenya strengthens the effect," the elf lord said with a knowing smile.

And Gimli then realized they plied magic to speed his recovery. Indeed she _was_ his savior. He did not mind. He wished nothing more than to get out of this bed.

But then Gimli's brow furrowed as he recalled something Galadriel had said a moment prior. He knew they all awaited word from him but he felt he must slow things, at least for his own sake of recovery. He was needed, that was clear, but he also had to piece things together before he could help them in finding the parts missing in their minds. He turned his gaze to her and said, "My Lady, in speaking of Legolas just now you said he does not have a few weeks to wait for my healing. Is it that you know something of his fate? What news have you that I do not?"

She bowed her head, smiling softly, but not so much in amusement. He could see that she contemplated her words in answer to him. She gazed up at him then. "You are recovering well if you can follow the nuance of my statements. Unfortunately, Elvellon, I have nothing for news, and certainly nothing is known of Legolas' well-being. We have been waiting for you to tell us more of what occurred. My mirror shows him yet alive but we know nothing of the attack that brought you to this state."

"You fear for him," the dwarf added.

"We all do. Is that not plain?" Thranduil growled, the unelven-like chords ringing loud in Gimli's ears. "You appeared here; he did not. What came of you? Where --?"

This time Galadriel spoke over the elf king. "Peace, my cousin!" And when she said this Thranduil backed away looking suddenly ashamed, his eyes turned to the floor. It seemed strange to see the blustering elf silenced so swiftly. But Gimli did not pay much more attention to this as Galadriel squeezed his hand and drew her eyes upon him.

She said, "I will be honest when I say I am anxious for Legolas; his existence is shrouded in mystery. The mirror shows me that the facets of his course are numerous and complicated, like a puzzle. Only some pieces were made clear to me but there are many others I do not understand."

"I will help you if I can," Gimli offered. "We were in Fangorn."

Thranduil grumbled beneath his breath but his words were still clear to all. "The dwarf knows of my son. Simply have him tell of Legolas' last known whereabouts and my warriors and I will work out whatever else there is."

Gimli spoke directly to Thranduil then. "Even were I to tell you where Legolas may be hidden, it would do you little good. The one who keeps him is beyond the realms of sanity. His wits are lost and has no understanding of who it is he keeps."

"My son is a prisoner?" the elf asked.

"I know not," Gimli answered honestly. "All I can tell you is Legolas and I were attacked by an Ent crazed of mind, and that is no small force."

"An Ent?" Those words were repeated throughout the room.

"Greywood he was named. Mithtaur he is called in your tongue." Turning his attention again to Galadriel, Gimli asked, "I would know what you saw in your mirror, Lady, for truly, if I did not know the strength of my friend, I would believe him dead now, so powerful was that attack. When I last saw him he lived, though we were separated before I might know his true fate."

Galadriel's brow furrowed, and she warred with the words she might use to explain herself. "You must understand: the mirror tells of events that may or may not happen. We can never really know which of them will come to be. There were many things I saw but few of them were of Legolas directly. In fact, there were only two visions that I might dwell on."

"Tell me," Gimli urged as he pushed himself up to a seat. Vaguely it occurred to him that there was no dizziness or pain associated with this new movements. He placed a hand to his head noticing there was less of an ache at the site of his wound. The drink was working.

"I saw a body, nearly lifeless though with strength enough to pass a last draw of breath. He was covered in mud, naked and shorn of all will; he was dying. It was Legolas' body and you were there, my friend Gimli, mourning him. Have you recollection of such an event?"

Gimli knew his eyes were wide, but he shook his head. He knew that she was asking if this action had occurred so that it might be catalogued. But it had not! And if it was in Gimli's power to keep it from happening, he would. "I was thrown before Legolas, and I was swept away by the river. It was not me tending Legolas but the other way around. I was too weak to even stand."

Galadriel nodded and added, "I also saw Legolas healthy and newly robed."

"This was in your second vision?" Gimli asked.

She nodded and gazed into his eyes as she said. "He was veiled in green light, and he was happy." Gimli felt heady relief with this announcement remembering his own dream of Legolas conversing on the platform overlooking the water. But he remembered too the hovering shroud, and his fears grew as Galadriel shook her head. She added, "He was with Faeldaer."

Relief washed over the dwarf, wiping away any worries he had regarding the shadow that had enveloped his friend in the dream. Seeing Faeldaer was a good thing for he had been one of the mysterious elves he and Legolas had been seeking. His existence had been a myth, yet now it seemed Faeldaer was indeed real for Galadriel had seen him in the mirror and he was with Legolas. This was the proof they had sought! The portent showed his friend alive, and Gimli could cling to that.

"Faeldaer?" It was Celeborn who asked this. And while Gimli was pleased to hear the utterance of this name, the others in the room seemed not to mirror his relief.

"But this is good news!" the dwarf exclaimed, squirming to bring himself to an even more upright position. "If Legolas is with Faeldaer then he is yet alive!"

Yet the expression on Celeborn's face was grim; Thranduil looked positively ashen. Why did they not share his joy?

"Do you not see?" the dwarf asked. "Our suspicions were unfounded!" He turned to Galadriel. "We should be gladdened. All may be well!"

"Nay!" Celeborn said, his voice sharp. "What she is telling you is not possible." Gimli could feel his brow crumbling in confusion. "The tales in the mirror are only possibilities, truths that have reason to pass."

"Yes, of course," Gimli agreed. "But Legolas and I thought certain no elves existed there. If Galadriel saw Legolas and Fealdaer in the mirror together then Faeldaer is alive, as is Legolas!"

"I fear that is not possible," Celeborn disagreed. "Faeldaer is dead and has been so for many thousands of years."

"I would differ in that opinion," Gimli countered blustering, but Celeborn stated his point.

"This vision of Faeldaer is nigh fantasy. The facts are not correct. Faeldaer passed this world when Sauron destroyed the lake realm of Mírnen," he argued. "Legolas cannot keep company with one who is dead."

"Lake realm? What lake realm?" Thranduil asked, looking confused, but his query was ignored.

"Mírnen yet exists. I have seen it," Gimli defended, undaunted by Celeborn's refusal.

"I have been to that place, and was there to witness the aftermath of the battle that took place. If you have seen it, Master Dwarf, you know there is no life there," Celeborn tersely replied.

Gimli pursed his lips, considering the argument. "Little life, I would agree, but Faeldaer certainly is not dead! Greywood kept speaking of him, and also of the elves that resided in the wood," Gimli explained, though he also recalled the Ent speaking equally of Narvi in the same tense, and that was indeed impossible.

"But Greywood is without wits," Galadriel said. "You have said so yourself."

"Aye, he was -- is," the dwarf persisted. "But perhaps there was truth in his madness." He was hopeful though the expression in Celeborn and Galadriel's eyes told him that he should not be.

Still Thranduil urged the debate on. "Is there proof Faeldaer died? How do you know this is true, Celeborn?"

Slowly dipping his eyes in delivering his regret, Celeborn spoke. "Faeldaer fled to the wood just as Sauron's poison infiltrated there. It seeped in like a heavy fog and it clung to that land for many months. And when it lifted everything that had lived in that place was dead. Trees, animals, plants."

"Greywood lives," Gimli tossed out, still trying.

"Greywood was not in the forest when the fog descended. He was with Treebeard. But I have no doubt the Ent has gone mad. If he yet lives in those lands, the evil that leeched into the soil must surely have tainted his mind."

But Celeborn was wrong in at least one aspect: not all was dead. Gimli remembered this. The trees in that part of Fangorn were sickly and dark, but many survived. All the same, a sick feeling fell over Gimli as the truth of the matter sank in. He remembered clearly the aching doubts he had felt that anything might have lived there. Even Legolas had said elves could not abide in such a place. The forest was too dark.

Disappointment ripped at his soul. They were right. Faeldaer did not live.

And if Faeldaer did not live, then the sight in the mirror was a lie. What was he to believe?

"I cannot agree!" Thranduil argued, and the dwarf looked up to see a face filled with rage. "These are the choices you offer: my son in the throes of death; or a fantasy has been presented that we must dismiss because you claim -- without proof --- the death of one being. Well, I cannot accept that. I do not accept Faeldaer's death based simply upon the state of the land. Are you telling me an elf cannot exist in perilous conditions?" The question was directed to Celeborn; the Mirkwood elf appeared to be challenging his silver-haired kin.

"I know no elf who could tolerate the constant presence of darkness," Celeborn replied and Gimli could see the Lothlorien lord was meeting Thranduil's challenge.

"Of course _you _cannot," Thranduil spat out in something that sounded like an accusation. "You have never lived in darkness! Yet before you cast dire reckoning upon this scene, I would remind you that my people _have_ done exactly so for _numerous_ years! And though the presence of unsightly evil may be too much for your tolerance, I know for a fact that an elf can survive -- nay, adapt even -- the environs he is placed within. How many of my people have lived as you describe it. How many have been recovered from the towers of Dol Guldur after centuries in captivity in situations far worse than you describe?"

Gimli realized these comments were not just spoken for the sake of keeping hope alive, but also in answer to a subtext he was not privy to. He did not care. Despite his own wariness for the elf, he rallied with Thranduil's defense of the dark wood.

"It is not the same," Celeborn argued. "The darkness that has fallen over Mirkwood has been slow and not of the same poison. It is possible to retreat from it and, yes, adapt."

"What of Faeldaer's body? Was it found?" Thranduil demanded, but Celeborn only shook his head in reply.

Thranduil went on. To Galadriel he asked, "And does the mirror lie? Why would an image portend something of fiction?"

Hesitating at first, she said, "The mirror does not lie." Then gazing at Celeborn to forestall his next query she said, "And neither does it look beyond this realm of Middle-Earth."

"Then how--?" Celeborn began.

"Faeldaer exists, that is how," Thranduil asserted and Gimli could not help but believe it true. Possibility remained. Legolas might indeed have survived. Not waiting for his cousin to respond, Thranduil turned back to the dwarf and the Lady. "My son is not dead," he said, and there was strength in the assertion as well as fear in the king's eyes. It caused the dwarf to blink. An ache was in this elf's heart, and all the bluster from before was drawn aside in the revelation of this fact.

Gimli eyed the elf with new wariness. He had not expected such a vehement argument in Legolas' favor. It made Gimli feel something akin to warmth for this elf who should be -- would be -- his enemy. Now he began to consider he might think of elf in better terms.

Thranduil continued. "I can feel him -- here," he placed his hand over his heart, and Gimli noticed that Galadriel dipped her eyes in acquiescence to that statement. "Whatever your mirror might say, I know the truth. Legolas is alive!"

Then gazing specifically at Gimli, Thranduil said in words kinder than he had used before. "I know nothing of this lake realm -- you called it Mírnen. Nor do I understand how Faeldaer fits the full of this equation. I knew him long ago but I would like to learn now what you can tell me of his part in this tale. He is with my son and I think I will need to know what has come to him before I will be able to seek Legolas out."

Gimli wanted to hate the elf. He reminded himself again that this was Thranduil and he wished to remember everything he had recently learned of the elf. Old prejudices need not even enter the equation. He was the one who had plotted what was essentially the rape of his own son; he had stabbed Legolas; had him imprisoned in a worthless task for some number of years; he preferred to train Legolas to be a mindless courtier rather than allowing him to fight the evil that had penetrated his wood. He wanted to think this elf a monster, a despot, an elitist. But the look in Thranduil's eyes painted him in a different light and the dwarf found a feeling within akin to pity. He could not explain it. He felt compelled to help if only for the sake of saving his friend.

And so he laid his head back into the pillows and accepted another drink from Galadriel. Then he began to tell his long story. He did not bother to tell of Legolas' hurt over losing the southern wood, or of his torn feelings about what he might do to occupy himself in these years that remained for him. He began to believe he might have a private opportunity to truly delve into the pains Thranduil had caused, and then he would not hold back. Pity would not exist then.

He did tell of the sea-longing though and how it ate at his friend, and Gimli could tell that this was something Thranduil had never considered for his son.

He questioned the dwarf, "Yet he chooses to remain?"

"He does. He says he will do what he can to serve Elessar while he rules these lands of Middle Earth," Gimli answered.

Thranduil grew pale. "Has he the strength to do this? Do you think he can remain?" The questions were honest and endearing but Gimli wondered them given how cold the elf king had been when his wife faced a similar ailment.

Gimli did not want to tell the elf about the constancy of Legolas' pain or how the longing filled him so deeply at times that it was like living with one absorbed beyond all thought. Instead he said, "I know no one as strong as Legolas," and left it at that.

The elf king's expression was grim, but he bowed his head, as if pushing aside his own doubts, and with a nod encouraged the dwarf on.

Gimli told of Fangorn Forest, of the moot, and the celebration given on their behalf. Thranduil almost smiled when the dwarf told how the Ent draught actually diminished Legolas' longing. But all pleasure was gone when he explained how Legolas had slept, and more particularly when he told of the dream Legolas had experienced.

This time it was Celeborn who questioned him. "He said it was as if he saw the coming to Mírnen through the eyes of another?"

"Not just any other," Gimli answered. "He saw it as Faeldaer would."

"But that is impossible," Celeborn replied. "Even in dream, all memories should have been only his; this is the way of elves."

Gimli shrugged, feeling fatigue start to claim him. The headache was back and he knew he would need to take rest soon. "Legolas said it was because Greywood sang to him."

"Even still, I have never heard of an elf actually dreaming the life of another."

The dwarf told them how the dream showed Sauron's attack upon Mírnen and this seemed to intrigue them. It did not strike them odd that Legolas would live the dream as a reality, only that he saw it through the eyes of another, Faeldaer no less. "Would that I could have seen that," Celeborn gasped.

Gimli stated, "I had difficulty waking him. It seemed so very real. Legolas was quite shaken."

"As he should have been! He confronted the dark power of Sauron! It is what I have tried to shelter him from all these years!" Thranduil exclaimed, clearly upset by this news.

But the outburst only angered Gimli and he was reminded once more of the king's pressure to keep Legolas bound at his side rather than doing what he did best and that is fight. "Your son did not back away from it! As dark as that dream was, he chose to confront it. And in reality he did. In undertaking the Quest, he fought against Sauron and won." He wanted to say that this was something Thranduil had denied Legolas in his own homeland but restrained himself. Such accusations could wait. Still he had to explain something of their actions. "Legolas wanted to see first hand what darkness had wrought so that he might put the memory to rest and try to restore some light to it."

"Is that why you went there?" Galadriel asked.

Gimli was torn. He knew their reasons for venturing into Mírnen were based only upon a whim, but he also knew they stemmed from memories that the elf king had wrought, crimes perpetrated for reasons the dwarf could not even guess. He wondered now if he should reveal these truths but knew Galadriel and Celeborn were not really the ones to judge them.

"Something was said in Legolas' dream," he said. "A name was put forth and he wanted to explore its meaning." Thranduil's eyes lit into the dwarf's and Gimli could see that the elf read what had been said. He could read the pain there and pity again claimed him. "He wanted to see the place where Narvi came to lay," he finally claimed, catching the elf king's eye so that he might know this was not really the truth. Thranduil dropped his eyes to his hands, and Gimli followed them there. The Ring still decorated his finger.

Yet he didn't point it out. His eyes went to the elf king's and he could tell that they understood one another. He pushed on with his tale, forgetting his fatigue.

He didn't talk about the Legolas's song recalling the memory of his mother and how that had affected Gimli, or his friend's flight into the woods when Gimli had confronted him about it. He didn't mention Thranduil's crimes though he wished he could; he wanted to see the elf king squirm. He didn't speak about Legolas searching for a star in the night sky to make the memories lessened, but he made them clear with his eyes as he stared into those of Thranduil.

At last he came to the end of his story: the disappearance of the Ent, the grave of Narvi and the elves buried in the granite, the search for wood before the storm, and then the horrendous rain accompanied by the attack. He had difficulty telling them how he had found himself there, but that question never was pressed.

He yawned at the end of his telling, and he found he had sunk even deeper into the pillows so that he was almost entirely reclined again. Once more Galadriel pressed him with the drink, and true to its effect, water or not, he felt all pains lessen with the draught.

"You must sleep now," she said, and he felt he could happily oblige her. "Tomorrow we might try raising you to a chair," and he could tell that, despite her remedying force, it was going to be days before he would be allowed to even walk, let alone pursue the fate of his friend.

Still, he nodded, not wishing to argue with her. Her people had saved his life and it would not be seemly to argue his strengths in the shadow of his apparent weakness.

The healer left and Celeborn nodded his farewell as well as he and Galadriel began to part, but Thranduil stopped the other elf before he could exit the space. "You say there are no maps, but you also tell me you have been to Mírnen. Can you show me at least which part of the forest I might go to find this mythical lake?"

The elf lord looked fully into Thranduil's face. "You mean to go there? When?"

"As soon as I may. My son is in need of my aid."

"The full of your contingent has not returned," Celeborn pointed out.

"They will return in a few days time. I would wait for them, but I might prepare myself in the meantime," the elf answered.

"King Thranduil!" Gimli called out before they could leave.

The elf turned back to gaze at him.

"A word please," Gimli asked, weighing whether this was the moment to truly speak his mind.

Thranduil sighed, but it was clear he could not refuse. The elf began to draw near, but Celeborn put a hand to his shoulder before he could go. "I will prepare a map for you as best I may, but I think it better you wait with us. We will go when Gimli is recovered enough to travel."

Thranduil betrayed nothing but Gimli could feel the impatience radiating from him. Thranduil was about to be lectured and he was not pleased. That amused the dwarf.

But his nod seemed to dispel the need for Celeborn to say more and so Thranduil was allowed to cross the room, returning to Gimli's side. Celeborn and Galadriel truly did part then, leaving Gimli alone with Thranduil.

The elf king stared down at the small figure. Though he had found a modicum of sympathy before, a spark of anger lashed Gimli as he glanced again at the elf who had been responsible, he knew, for his friend's anguish. Not disguising his disdain, he simply stated, "Do you intend to leave tomorrow?"

Thranduil's gaze was stony, but the corners of his mouth lifted. "Your ears are yet unwell. Did you not hear what I said?"

Gimli was tired and growing impatient as well. He did not wish to play with words. "You know what I ask. Do you intend your departure to come tomorrow, or will it follow the day after? For I know it will be sooner than the few days you spoke of to Celeborn."

"I see no reason to make any of this is business of yours." Thranduil dismissively replied.

"Whether you think it my business is not the question. I wish to know simply because I would ask that you take me with you when you go."

The corners of Thranduil's mouth turned up even more breaking into a rueful smile. "I cannot be delayed by an ailing dwarf."

Gimli gave this argument no heed. He said, "I do not ask that you delay, I ask that you take me with you. I alone know where last Legolas and I stood. I know where we were separated. "

"You are too weak to go," the elf king replied, his nose wrinkling in unspoken disgust.

"Tomorrow will be too soon for me. I am fatigued and need to rest. But the day after I think I will be ready. I came upon a horse and I doubt the animal has been given away while I slept. It will carry me so you need not concern yourself with my weakness."

Thranduil shrugged. "Galadriel will not allow it."

"I am sure she would not. But time is important. You and I both know that. You _will_ take me with you."

Thranduil laughed. "You think you can order me!"

Gimli nodded. "I do."

"I take no orders from you!" the king arrogantly retorted.

The Dwarf smirked. "You should be careful, Thranduil. I merely need to call Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel back to make all your actions of the last few millennium fall under scrutiny. Your Ring is quite visible to me.

"So not only do you order me, you attempt to coerce me?" Thranduil asked, clearly appalled.

"I suppose you might see it that way, but I would rather you felt this were your idea," the dwarf replied tiredly though a wicked smile played upon his lips. He knew he was playing a part that was not natural to him yet he found grim pleasure in maneuvering the king. He continued, "You might also consider that I will be allowed admittance to the forest where you may not. The trees there admitted me once before, I do not see why they would not again. I know where within we should go," he replied, now starting to show what cards he held and feeling his anger urging him forth.

Thranduil fell into silence and for a moment Gimli thought he might leave without answering the dwarf's demand. Should Thranduil not bow to his cohersion Gimli was uncertain what he might do. He had no real reason to tell the Lord and Lady what he knew of Thranduil's secret. He did not think it really mattered to any outside of Mirkwood, but Gimli also knew Thranduil felt shame for his actions. Yet if Thranduil left without him, Gimli was hardly in any position to follow on his own. He simply did not have the strength to make the journey back to Fangorn Forest without aid.

And while Gimli considered this, Thranduil relented. "I can wait until the day after the morrow. Should I wait longer I fear it will be too late for Legolas. You may do what you will then for I will not let you delay me more."

Gimli smiled. This was exactly what he had hoped might come. He would be leaving in another day and that little extra time would be enough for his recovery, he was certain. He would make it so for he must. And then he could go in search of his friend.

TBC


	34. Related Souls

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty-Three: Related Souls_

Celeborn's words had not been kind. Bloodlines or not, Thranduil's kindred did not take the errant words of the young king with blithe disregard. "You will watch yourself, cousin, for my wife is quite fond of the dwarf Gimli and I will not suffer her just because you cannot find forgiveness for errors made millenniums past." With that, Celeborn had given the roughly drawn maps of Fangorn Forest he had conjured up per Thranduil's request. But the elf also knew his relation would prefer they mounted a more thought-out plan of action.

Thranduil had bowed his head to the senior elf but his resolve had not lessened. All he could fix his mind on was the wavering sense he had felt of his son. He could not feel it well so long as he wore the Ring, but now, alone, he took It from his long finger and knew in a breath that Legolas was still alive. At the same time Thranduil could feel with greater certainty that his son's spirit was fading. It had been with each passing day, but it was more so now.

Anxiously, he was certain his son lay injured somewhere, but since hearing Gimli's tale, he feared it was the sea that pulled at the young elf's soul as much as any outward wound. He had no proof of this, but the dwarf's tale had affirmed the worry for him and the elder felt Legolas weakened might not be able to fend off the dread effects of _cuivear_. Thranduil was willing to fortify his son's strength through their bond if Legolas would only seek him out, but he was not sure his son knew this might be done or would venture to permit it even if he could. And without this, the elf surely would die from the shattering of his heart created by the longing -- if not his wounds. This pressed on Thranduil greatly, and it made him terribly distressed.

He had already lived through one death created by the sea's call when his dear Laeraniel parted. There too, he had tried to share the burden, but she had refused him, severing their bond. That, more than the sea longing, had been the instrument of her death, he was sure. He could guess that Laeraniel had been determined that he would not succumb to the affliction contact with the sea-longing would create, yet he had been injured that she would not have him. Perhaps she felt he needed to be free of the sea longing to rule the Greenwood realm and, if so, she had sacrificed herself for him. But there had been more to it than that though he refused to think of this greater betrayal. It hurt, regardless, and Thranduil had never spoken on it. Thus he had never shared the knowledge with Legolas that such a soul bond could have helped her. Legolas did not know he could reach out to Thranduil for the same succor.

Of course, the Ring did not aid in fostering a bond. It was one of the shortcomings of wearing It. Thranduil had come to learn that his ties to those he loved suffered greatly, for Passion came before love in the way It had been made.

Yet where before he had worried that his surety was lost, now with Passion removed he was assailed by uncertainty. Was it even right that he wait a day for the dwarf? For what if after a day the small creature still had not healed enough to travel? The king would have wasted those hours most precious. Elves did not often weigh time in their decisions, but Thranduil felt its press upon him now.

He should leave now. That is what he thought.

But then, the dwarf would tell the truth of these matters to Celeborn and Galadriel and with that Thanduil would have their wrath to face upon his return. Surely they would not turn him away should he bear his son, but Thranduil's rulership might be questioned. Events of the past would come under close scrutiny.

He squeezed his eyes shut but he could not stave the memories that lingered in his mind.

"Nay! Nay! I wish not these doubts!" the elf cried aloud. And then he realized what he needed was the Ring. The Ring would help him fight off the memories and shore his confidence.

He slipped It back onto his hand and the power of his Passion was immediate. Though he could not keep memories from entering his mind, he could control the effect they might have on him. He relaxed as he eased himself onto the bed. He was suddenly weary. Knowing he must wait, he knew it might be best he rest while he still might. Fretting would serve him little.

And so as it is with elves as they fall into reverie, Thranduil's mind slipped into memories of the past. His gaze softened as he recalled times he could call neither good nor bad. It was his history, and if there were mistakes in his actions, they were only apparent in hindsight. But in his dreams, even hindsight was lost for the memories were as if one almost lived then in the moment. Almost. Almost, for even one lost in reverie, there was some awareness of the world beyond. And so he walked in dreams both present and past.

It was a winter day and Thranduil was intrigued by the stillness of the white world around him. He did not know then that he was about to meet Annatar for the last time, but his present mind told him this would be the outcome, and this foreknowledge set the mood for him. He felt misery for the loss, though he realized too that he should be wary. Still, he and Annatar had met many times over the years following that first meeting in the Greenwood. Never were their encounters planned. Always it was in the forest that they passed and seldom was Thranduil alone when those events had happened. He came to see after a time that this was a happy situation for the man came to meet many others this way. As Annatar had suggested, he came to be known to the elves of Greenwood as Hirandir and he had eased into the fringes of Thranduil's world, coming and going without taking real residency anywhere.

On this chill day Thranduil had been alone, traveling one of the southern forest roads afoot. He had been enroute from the kingdom palace to one of the near villages to check on the well-being of those people after a winter storm from a few days before. Though he had no doubt they had come through the weather well, he and his father still made it a practice to look in on all the elves in the forest community, just to make sure all were attired and well-fed as best could be managed in circumstances such as these. Theirs was a kingdom that tried to maintain a certain amount of equality between all, and if equality could not be reached, at least the necessities of comfort could.

In the silent whiteness of the forest, he had heard the horses steps approaching long before he saw the men. Riding with another, Annatar was cloaked in a deep green cape and hood. He was riding a roan stallion, the animal fiery and eager. Yet despite the creature and the control the man kept over its wild nature, Annatar seemed old to Thranduil's eyes that day. His hair was fully grey in those days and his posture was stooped even when he sat high in the saddle. His voice was still forceful when he spoke, but there was a tiny quaver to it that belied a certain weariness that said much of his years.

His age was made further apparent when compared to that of the second rider. A younger man was with him. He was dark-skinned and his eyes were kohled, as if the light was a bother to him, even here to the north. And instead of customary garb, he wore a turbaned muff upon his head and had a fur-lined cloak wrapped about his body. It was clear to Thranduil then that this man was a Southron.

Thranduil was drawn back to Annatar when the elder spoke. "I hear tale that a home may be forged in this wood." It was a common joke between Thranduil and Annatar, a greeting one or other of them oft said when after long years they would meet again.

The elf laughed, reaching out as Annatar dismounted. They clasped forearms in customary fashion. "Ai, but the elves are wild and unlearned here. No man of sophisticated breeding will feel comfortable in the Greenwood," Thranduil said in his standard reply.

Annatar countered. "And who says I am a man of sophisticated breeding?" he coyly mused with a wink.

They laughed and embraced but as Thranduil pulled the man near he noticed the frail slightness to his friend. It struck Thranduil suddenly that Annatar, once robust and full of vigor was now like a leaf that had lost its pliancy and color as winter came near. Something stabbed at his heart with the recognition that his friend's life was fading, and somehow he knew this would be their last meeting. It made him cognizant of every word that passed between them.

"I was coming to see you," Annatar said as they separated. "I was even going to venture to your father's mighty palace if I did not find you on the road."

Thranduil shrugged. "Do you think that would be risky after all this time? You are known in these woods, not just by me but by many other elves, Hirandir," he said, using the man's known name in those parts. Despite his musing, he did not dare call him by the name of Annatar.

Ignoring the comment, the man shrugged and said, "I wanted you to meet my friend here. His name is Kamul."

In his present mind, Thranduil knew what would come later, but in his recollection he simply gazed at the man, guessing him to be of Harad. He was quite striking on his long-legged mare, but there was something odd about his eyes that Thranduil could not place, as if they could see into him and did not really look at him. The man's stare made him shudder, and Thranduil had to look away, though he smiled and bowed, just to keep a façade of politeness. After all his mentor had taught him, Annatar would expect no less of him.

"Kamul is a king in his lands," Annatar continued.

"Yet you travel unescorted?" Thranduil questioned, glancing back at the Southron and then at his friend.

Annatar opened his hands out to the side. "He had my sword as protection," but it was a jest as they both knew, per Annatar's teaching, that a king should be seen with a great entourage.

It was the dark man who replied, answering Thranduil's query. "Hirandir would have had it so, but I objected to such a display. There seems little reason to do so here. I am not known in these lands and the world is at peace. Should I need to, I can defend myself well, though in our journeys we have met little danger." Thranduil could not help but to look at the man when he spoke, and this time he noticed the depth of the man's eyes that he had found so daunting before was now faded. He saw nothing strange in the man anymore.

"As well," the man continued, "I see no point in showing you my wealth when it might hinder any negotiations we might orchestrate."

Thranduil turned a quizzical eye upon Annatar and the man offered explanation. "I bring Kamul that you might come to an agreement over trade."

"I see," the elf smiled. This was not the first time Annatar had worked as an intermediary to meetings, and Thranduil laughed inwardly at how he was again a tool to his friend's choice of employ. This is where Annatar excelled, connecting people to one another in order to work out means of exchange. The Greenwood kingdom had been on the receiving end many times over in making acquaintance with emissaries of foreign lands through Annatar. The man's boldness was admirable, if not a bit that of a rogue, for the man never did ask if it would be right to make these introductions. Still, Thranduil could see it had been done to everyone's advantage, for it always worked that goods were bought and sold out of these creatively forged relationships. Further, for the elves' part, they had yet to trade inadequate fare. Yet Thranduil could not help but wonder how much wealth Annatar had procured as payment for establishing such contracts.

He found that Annatar was watching him then, and he raised a brow in askance. "Is now a fair time for our meeting?" the graying man asked.

Thranduil laughed loudly. "Do you give me choice, friend?" he replied. "Follow me on my road. It is not more than a league I go before we might have a roof over our heads."

Annatar offered him a ride upon his horse, but Thranduil preferred the walk to sitting at the man's back. He had set out without a horse intentionally, wanting more the company of the trees. Now he had the company of men, but he did not mind. The sense that this would be their last passing filled him again and the elf wanted to fill his heart with what he could of his friend before it was too late. He was not disappointed. Annatar filled the time telling him of his journeys since last they'd met and his acquaintance with Kamul. Any words of the trees were lost to him amidst the laughter emanating from the company. It seemed the man had spent a great deal of time of late in the south, and Kamul had been instrumental in forging relationships, and much mischief, there. The Southron appeared to be quite an adventurer himself.

And so they traveled on to the village comprised mostly of flets that soared to the treetops. It was a Silvan settlement that they went to, and the first that Kamul had ever seen. The man grinned broadly as they climbed a series of spiraling stairs leading up to the cluster of treed homes. "I would have never realized these people were here had you not shown me their hiding place."

Thranduil scoffed. "These are but their homes. Were they to hide, even I would have difficulty finding them." And it was true. The Silvans were a clever lot.

"Have they the power to fly away as the birds?" Kamul asked as they came to the top riser and looked out upon the comings and goings of all the village activities.

"Nay," Thranduil answered, directing them to a meeting house where they could gather. "but they do know a trick or two about disguise. It is their garb that makes it seem that they melt into the trees. They are fanciful in their weaving."

"As are my people," Kamul nodded and smiled as if suddenly realizing how many elves were indeed about them. "Though our skills are more toward the ornate, not the deceptive."

"This is the reason I bring you together. Kamul's people are very talented. Come, show Thranduil," Annatar said to the man.

It was then that Kamul undid the pack that he had carried up the long flight. From his satchel poured out a cascade of vibrant hues. The elf prince gasped at the array. He had never seen anything that shone as fluidly as these. Stepping forward, he imagined how they might flow as a robe. "Magnificent," he whispered as he touched the light cloth.

"As is the loomcraft of your people," Kamul replied.

Thranduil felt his face redden with the praise. The elven prince owned many cloaks and garments made from the Silvan cloth, and though he had always admired the clever shift of forest hues in the weave fabricated by his people, he now thought it as simple as homespun cloth. It could not compare with the fibers he brushed his fingers against.

"Did I not tell you Thranduil was an elf of good taste?" Annatar bragged to the man.

"We are not pretentious people, Lord Kamul," Thranduil said, regretting his words even as he spoke them. In truth, he longed to don the beautiful cloth.

"Nonsense," the man said, and his eyes sparked with the intensity Thranduil had seen in them before. "You are of the court. Your father is the king. Both of you would be better bedecked in such finery."

Thranduil shook his head. "I do not think we could afford such a rich trade. It would not be practical to my people."

"What if our trade were an even one? Your elven cloth for my Haradric cloth?" the man asked.

Aghast at the generosity of the offer, Thranduil gulped. Of course he could manage an even exchange, but did the man really mean what he said? "Do you really think that fair?"

"No I do not," he announced, and his lips pursed in his show of disgruntlement. And then he growled at Annatar, throwing up his hands dramatically before turning back to Thranduil. "You strike a hard bargain! Very well then -- three of mine for two of yours," Kamul countered, warning under his next breath, "I can go no more than that!"

Annatar laughed, interjecting with a wink, "Which means he would give you three for one." And then he said as an aside, "Harad trade practices... never believe them when they say they can go no further. It always means that they can."

Kamul brushed past Annatar and wrapped his arm about Thranduil's shoulder in a brotherly show of affection in what was clearly a means to turn the elf away. "Pah! Do not listen to him, Lord Thranduil. He thinks that bartering on the streets is the same as a trade between kings."

'Would such a bargain exist on the streets?" the elf asked.

"I wager it cold be made better," Annatar nodded.

"Three for one. There! It is done! Do not press me to go further for I would have to call this conversation forfeited," Kamul winced.

"I would ask no more. What you offer is beyond fair. I think my people will be satisfied with what we you offer," Thranduil replied, trying to be nonchalant in his response. In truth he was astounded by the deal being offered.

"I am telling you, you should haggle with him more," Annatar urged him from behind, but Thranduil was in no mood for it.

"I am satisfied," Thranduil said as he then turned the conversation to one establishing dates, quantities and colors.

Night fell within the hour and Thranduil procured rooms for the two in the settlement.

And when he could, he found a private moment to be alone with his friend.

"What recompense will you take for establishing these relationships, Annatar?" he asked, using the man's real name when he was sure they were alone.

"I ask nothing, my friend, for the personal bond with you has garnered payment enough. I suspect it will do much for my people even when I am no longer here."

"Do not speak like that!" Thranduil admonished.

"Little choice do I have, old friend, for truly has our time together marked my age -- all in a good way. I have not many years yet to live," the man replied.

"Sufficient enough, I would think," the elf denied.

"Nay," Annatar rejoined. "My time wanes. I will not live past the decade, and I fear this may be our last meeting."

"Say it not," Thranduil whispered.

"I must," the man answered, "for I have a gift for you."

"I wish nothing --" Thranduil began.

Annatar waved him off. "I have a name I must live up to," he laughed. And he drew out a small parcel Thranduil had not noticed before and handed it to the elf. "This is actually for your heir. I know you do not have one yet, but if I waited for you to choose a mate I will be in the grave before the gift is bequeathed."

"I require love in a bond, not simply a mate that might give me an excuse to stay in my father's home," Thranduil countered, laughing.

"In any case, this is for the child you might some day claim," Annatar pressed, drawing the string on the cloth that held the contents hidden.

The fabric fell open, and beneath the cloth was revealed a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. "I commissioned it from Celebrimbor's hand in days past," the man said, his eyes rapt upon the item.

Thranduil lifted the item from the cloth, gaping at the gift that he held. This was no mere trinket but was indeed an entire shirt fashioned from mithril, sized to fit a child. "I cannot! The value of this piece is immense!" he objected, though his eyes could not be torn from the coat. He held the most precise and beautifully wrought mail work he could ever know. "Why?" he found himself asking.

Annatar shrugged. "I once promised you a piece of my work though that has not been possible. Someday I do hope one of the pieces I forged with Celebrimbor's aid might find its way to you. I have put it in my bequests that such should happen. But for now I wanted you to have something that served as a token of my affection."

"But this is too great!" Thranduil gasped.

"You have been a good friend, offering me comforts and a home --"

"Falsehoods! And you know it! Even now I shy from your real name. And as for a home --"

"Oh I know that your offer to let me live in the Great Greenwood was a jest, but if needed, I know you would give me lodging," Annatar casually remarked.

"Without hesitance," Thranduil replied and meant it.

"You truly do not know how often I have accepted that offer though I have yet to build my own towers. Perhaps those who follow me will take you up on that," the man said, nodding. He placed his hand upon the elf's. "But until then, think kindly of me. Defend me to those who might slander me."

"I wish you would not speak like this," Thranduil objected.

"Remember me well," Annatar said as he squeezed Thranduil's arm and then turned and left.

Thranduil blinked his eyes then, coming to wake in the full of night. He realized that he was once more in the guest suite in Lothlorien realm. The memory he had delved in his reverie seemed out of place in this wood, yet he felt comforted by it. It proved to him the faithfulness of his friend. After all, the mithril vest had been a gift for his son and no evil had ever been found to dwell in it.

That evidence alone was enough to make Thranduil doubt again the slanderous infamy of Annatar and he felt that all truths pointed to his friend's innocence. Once more the elf wondered if he should believe the wrongs brought against Annatar. In his mind Annatar and Sauron were two unrelated souls.

**TBC**

**A/N:**  
_Cuivear_ – this is a word I made up long ago when I wrote "Cry of the Gulls" and "Torn Between Two Worlds." It is the elven name I give for 'sea-longing.'


	35. Memories in Dream

**A/N: **I have another story recommendation for you. As mentioned in my last pass at this, I adore "Deeper Than Breathing" by Ziggy3, which is a slightly AU account of Legolas meeting up with Eomer and defeating Saruman's corruption upon Theoden -- such a wonderful take on the noble, alien, and intoxicating qualities of our favorite elf! And now I'm also pushing you to go read "Travel as the Sun" by Mirwalker. This one is about Legolas and Gimli coming to Mirkwood after the Ring War but really focuses on the effects of the sea-longing upon Legolas and those he loves. It's a very graceful account, insightful and beautifully crafted. So once done here, go to my Favorites page for the links to read these two authors' works.

** Dark Forest  
_By Anarien_**

_Part II: In Realms Beyond  
__Chapter Thirty-Four: __Memories in Dream_

In his sleep-hazed mind Thranduil could see the shadow of what would come from this encounter. Despite the good intentions Annatar had shown toward the elf prince's as yet unknown son, in time Thranduil would come to see the dark side of that eventful meeting. Still, he reconciled his misgivings by recognizing that he could never have guessed the outcome at that particular time. Regardless, a part of him warred with the knowledge that he may have offered information of the southern elves by allowing Kamul into that village. Kamul, who became in the centuries that followed one of the Nazgul menace, had once been a mortal Man and Thranduil had met with him, bargained with him, laughed with him. Even in sleep, he shuddered at the knowledge that he had known such evil in more innocent days.

And if he could meet and know Kamul once as a Man, could he not also be so deceived by Sauron in the guise of Annatar?

Simultaneously as a counter he could argue that the association did not prove a dark truth about Annatar's identity. The dichotomy of this debate left Thranduil confused. To this day he could not state with certainty that he believed the man and Maia one and the same.

Still, were he looking for signs of evil they were certainly there, and the Ring, like his friend, came with dark moments. It was true, Legolas had been a victim to times when Thranduil had let his Passion take too much possession of his soul, but he could rein It for the most part, and he knew It only ruled him when he grew complacent or frightened by his own doubts.

Yet if pressed he would have to admit that the Ring's darkness was pervasive from the first moment It had come to him. His mind wandered then as he recognized another memory filling the void of his night.

The tall and dark-haired mortal woman gazed knowingly at Thranduil. She had presented herself at his gates with an entourage of ten others, men all, and two wagons full of goods. Despite her femininity she was clearly the leader. She was unlike other mortal women he had met, for, among other things, she wore leggings and a tunic like a man. Yet she was beautiful to look at and Thranduil appreciated her from the distance as he approached.

"Prince Thranduil," she said, bowing to him from the seat of the first wagon as he approached. It was clear she recognized him. "I come to you in remembrance of a time past," she said, her voice certain and bold.

Thranduil glanced briefly at the guards but they seemed at ease, questioning the unexpected delivery but clearly not seeing danger in the situation. He turned then to the woman realizing it was his to decide the situation. He had seen the wagons crossing the bridge and had drawn near to learn more of it. Now that he was amongst the drivers, he was surprised to learn they came specifically to see him. "A time past?" Thranduil asked, frowning.

The woman leapt from the driver's seat. He could not imagine what purpose the group might have, for though the elves traded with humans, it was usually done through arrangement made at many of the outlying settlements.

"Aye, my lord," she said, dropping into a low bow once she was upon solid ground. "We bring gifts for you from Hirandir."

That statement created quite a stir among the elves in the courtyard. "Hirandir?" Thranduil asked. He could see many elven eyes directed toward him with the same question. Hirandir had been known to several of his people, but it had been long years by mortal reckoning that that had been.

The lady remained in her bowed position but her eyes came up quizzically, clearly not understanding his dismay. "Am I wrong in my understand, Lord? Perhaps," she began hesitantly, "you know him better by the name 'An--'"

"I know Hirandir," Thranduil cut her short, fully knowing the man's true name and fearing that to utter it would set great discord amongst his people. "Or better I should say I _knew_ him. It is my understanding that he passed in the years a millennium ago."

Using the prince's returned comment as permission to continue, she raised her head, though her body remained contorted in her deep curtsey. "True. But the time passed does not mean memory has been lost. My kindred still honor you and your friendship with him though we are now many generations removed."

Truly perplexed, Thranduil ordered her to stand so that he might see her fully and speak on more equal ground. "Rise, please," he said, and the woman resumed her former height. "We had known Hirandir here, of course, but we would expect nothing from his descendants. Is it not the way of mortals to let the memories languish and die?"

She barked a laugh then. "You knew Hirandir; do you think he would prefer to be forgotten? Nay, my lord, my grand-uncle of beyond days made arrangements so he would _always_ be remembered and thus honored."

"Why you come is still mystery to me," Thranduil said, shaking his head. He was quite aware that all eyes were upon him and he felt uncertain of himself in this ruling post.

"Will you not accept these gifts?" the woman asked, waving at her kindred and the wagons. "Take them and you and I may speak privately of the manner in which they come."

Thranduil could foresee many of his guardsmen whispering recitations of this encounter if he did not break away from their curious eyes. Further, he sensed there was something this woman would present that was not meant for others to view.

He nodded and she turned to her companions, ordering them to dispatch the contents of the wagons. With a clipped order from Thranduil, one of the gate guards took command of the delivery, directing them to a bay for which they might unpack.

"Come with me," Thranduil said to her, turning away from the activity the carts had created.

He noticed she shook off two of her kin as they had started to follow, and without looking he could tell it was just her feet walking the path behind him.

He led her to a quiet garden closed off by a heavy gate. It was not a heavily trafficked area, an arbor used only by the kitchen stewards in earlier seasons of the year. Being chill months, the grapes were past their season and had been harvested months before. Yet the foliage remained to enshroud the area giving it utmost privacy. It was the perfect place to have a conversation away from prying eyes.

He turned, pivoting on the stone path so that he might face her. It was only then that he realized just how beautiful she was. She was exotic when compared to the eldar kind, and though her features differed from that of his kind. Her nose was sharp and narrow like the angled lines of her face. And her clear, brown eyes were set close, lined in thick, dark lashes. In her alien way, she was radiant and becoming. He was drawn most to her dark eyes, which slanted upward at the corners. They were smiling at him though she was careful to keep her gaze indirect. Her mouth was formed from full lips, inviting and fresh, the color of a dusky wine. Despite a loose shirt cinched by a thick belt, he could see she had an attractive figure with high breasts and a small waist. Further there was something to her scent that he now noticed for the first time. It made him stop on the cusp of his breath, lost as to what he might say or do. He was startled to realize he considered a seduction then, for she was beautiful to behold. But it was a vague thought, nothing more than a fleeting notion and he let it pass.

But she seemed to realize the effect she had on him for her lips parted to reveal full, white teeth and a tongue that darted tantalizingly at the edge of her bite. Yet she too seemed to recover herself for she dipped her chin, suddenly appearing shy and uncertain in the next breath.

That little bit of doubt on her part was enough for Thranduil to find his confidence and turn to matters at hand. "You claim him a great-uncle, but surely you have never truly met Hirandir?" he asked, his voice calm, sure, that of a commander and prince.

"Will you not call him by his rightful name, my lord?" she asked and her eyes were upon him, knowing.

"I have not uttered his true name in years and I will not now," the elf answered feeling as if others spied on them just for the mentioning. His voice may have been certain but he did not feel such.

"I know him," she replied, one brow quirking up as if to weigh his response.

Was she testing him? He felt as if there was a power play between them, and though he was not an elf of great power, he was not one to be bested by a mortal. If she were indeed a descendant of Annatar she would know how that he had sparred and held his own against her kin. Thranduil replied with amusement deciding this must be some elaborate ruse. "How so?"

"I know him as one knows tales of a famous family member, I know him," she answered, and this satisfied him for she seemed not to be challenging him so much as assuring him.

Thranduil chuckled though he still looked at her with suspicion. "Is he of your kindred line? I see no resemblance in you."

"Nay, we are not kin -- not directly," she laughed, meeting his suspicious mirth, "But he was as a great-uncle to my grandmother, or so she has relayed it."

Thranduil was not sure he believed her for Annatar had never made mention of having family. Yet he played his part in the game. Coyly he asked, "And those who you travel with?"

"My brothers," she answered with an offhand shrug. "They know the stories as well as I do."

"Why not let them attend me then also? Might they not wish to participate in this exchange?" he asked.

"Aye, my lord," she said, biting her lip as if chastised, but then she seemed to regain her confidence as she smiled at him again. "But someone must unload the wagons, and my brothers are more physically able to do that than I would be. Someone must represent my family to you, and I have been chosen to do such. Besides, I come with an exchange only I might bear."

Thranduil nodded then, but he did so merely to be polite. He did not understand her purpose. "You come then to reminisce?" he asked. "You look for me to fill voids in your family tales?"

"Nay, my lord, I come to deliver gifts from Hirandir ... or Annatar I might be allowed to call him that," she returned.

"From _him_? After all these years?" The elf laughed softly, giving up the ruse. "And so he lives up to his name once more. But I do not know how he could deliver anything since his name, were one to recall it, can only be spoken in the past tense. Is he not buried -- his body now food only to the grubs?"

It seemed now it was the woman's turn to chuckle. "Very well; I come to deliver bequeathed gifts."

"Oh? Long past due, would you not say?" Thranduil asked, his brow quirked but amusement clearly dancing in his eyes. He had never thought to be visited by his old friend again, metaphorically so, if not in the flesh, and he was charmed to think of merrier times even if he knew they could not truly be reclaimed. "And what are these items bequeathed in days that I would venture were long, long years before you were born?"

"There are several actually." She smiled at him coyly. "For one, my wagons carry a healthy store of wine. My family specializes in it and we have been instructed to bring you a supply as often as you desire it. I believe it was a blend you favored?"

"My wine?" Thranduil whispered in sudden surprise, and indeed this was a joyful thing for he oft longed for that vintage. None of his vintners nor those that they traded with could replicate that haunting taste and Thranduil had given up hope of ever tasting Annatar's wine again.

The woman smiled seductively, obviously pleased that he would receive this gift. "_My_ wine," she said taking a step closer. She continued. "But I offer it to you."

Thranduil felt her suddenly too near and took a step back. He wondered at her intent. Whereas the elf might have considered a seduction the moment before, it had been something he kept in his mind; he had not really thought to act upon it.

She followed him, not easing back despite his withdrawal. "There is more," she said in a quieter voice though there remained a boldness to her speach.

"More?" he repeated keeping her gaze and fighting the urge to flee her.

"Annatar had asked that should we ever recover a particular item, it was to be delivered to you, no matter how many years had passed." She was now very near and he could smell her scent again. It was musky and rich. "It is the real reason we come, for were we true to his wishes, my family might have had regular deliveries to you long years before today."

"You have withheld from me?" Thranduil asked, confused and simultaneously amused.

The woman smiled, biting her lip again and Thranduil found the gesture provocative and alluring. He wondered if she realized this trait. "You discover my insincerity," she replied, her eyes smoldering and dark.

"What else might you have that truly draws you here?" he asked.

"This," she said, and she held out to him a small black box, carved with an intricate inlay of pearlescent stone. He had no idea where it had materialized for he had not seen her carry it from the cart and she had no pockets in which to hide it.

"What -- what is it?" Thranduil reached a tentative hand forward. "Are those runes?" he asked noticing the marks on the box. He could make no sense of the designs.

"It is just a box," she answered, but his eyes were no longer on her. It was as if the box was beckoning him, transfixing him. "The gift is inside," he heard her say.

And then the box was in his hand. He was uncertain how it came to be there but he had no mind then to question the notion. He felt unbalanced and confused, and simultaneously he felt anchored, as if he stood exactly where he had always been meant to stand. The box had weight and it was warm, beyond the temperature of his skin. In holding it, a tingling warmth moved up his arm, velvet smoothness. "Ah," he hummed, the sound escaping his lips without his intention to speak it so. Yet it was the contents within the box that called to him. His hands acted of their own volition and he felt he was an unwitting witness to the unveiling.

Without a moment's thought, It was exposed to him, out of Its shining container, away from its silky bed. He held It, admiring it, and then suddenly he found It decorating his finger though he had no memory of placing It there. But rather than being startled by the confusing appearance, he was hypnotized by Its beguiling beauty. The Ring was magnificent, flaring brightly, golden and fiery. Its stone radiated entrancing light, and Thranduil felt he could almost spend all his days gazing upon the incredible gem. But the mystery of Its instantaneous nature upon his hand barely matched the startled sensation he felt when he wore It. Power and surety beyond anything he had ever known coursed through his body, mind and soul. He felt invigorated. He felt glorious. He felt ... alive.

His body thrummed with life. For the first time ever in his known memory, he felt as if he were moved, wanting, desirous of all the world might lay down before him. And he felt like he might just have the power to gain it all.

He heard a soft gasp, a cry of delight and excitement, and he realized that the woman was still there with him. He had forgotten her for an instant, but now he remembered her presence, feeling the heat of her body, consuming the scent of her breath. He looked at her but her eyes were fixed elsewhere, mesmerized by the sight of the Ring upon his finger. She was panting heated breaths, and he realized he was breathing these quick gasps as well. And then her eyes came up and he knew she was his should he choose it.

He smiled, aroused and rapt, desire suddenly claiming him. And he did not draw back when her belt fell away and the loose shirt slipped from her shoulders, sliding sinuously down the curve of her breasts, snaking over the richness of her firm thighs, and coiled about her feet like a discarded skin. Vaguely, he realized he did not know her name. But he dismissed this thought. Instead he smiled and reached his hand forward, claiming what had been given him and feeling for the first time what it was to have Passion.

Thranduil blinked to wakefulness, aroused and yearning. He knew what it was he might do to alleviate this want, but it felt wrong. It felt like the desire came from some place outside of himself. He clutched his hand to his chest. It was the Ring that wanted him to spend himself on his passions.

He closed his eyes as a tear slipped away.

And then he let a sob spill from his throat. It reverberated against the walls around him, amplified by the quiet of the night. He knew what was wrong with the Ring. He knew and understood, wish it otherwise as he may, everything that had been said about Annatar was true. He realized how great was the evil that had been Sauron. Deceptive and manipulative. And yet he held to that, believed in the untruths rather than the obvious realities presented to him. His faith was terribly shaken.

Yet Legolas needed him, and with It he could not sense the presence of the one he loved most dear. How many times would he choose his petty need for surety and confidence, forsaking his son as the price? It was time to end this.

And so, with acceptance and regret, he removed his Passion so that he might feel again, telling himself that never again would he don It. Sadly though, he knew it was not the first time he had held these thoughts.

xxxxxxxx

Irgluk was pregnant and thus they were delayed. Already she could feel the new life within her. Her time had come sooner than she had thought it would. The cycles kept her from living as freely as a male and for a brief moment she was envious.

She was weary now, and she would be until the babe was born, but she could still fight. She just needed to rest. At least she had had her kill.

Almost all of the elves that had been guarding the south woods were dead. The thought of it brought her pleasure. But her condition had forced the orcs to delay their further retreat. Fortunately no new elves had come and those who remained of her band had done their best to hide themselves. But they would have to move. Tomorrow she hoped it would be. She no longer felt safe under the eaves of these woods.

Tomorrow. She was tired now. Tomorrow.

She found a gathering of orcs in one hall and nestled into the center of their cluster, using their heat to warm herself. No male would dare touch her in this state. Instead, they would do their utmost to protect her. She was their queen, after all.

She dozed and dreamt of her orc baby within. In her sleep-hazed mind Irgluk imagined ahead to the birthing, seeing it as she had hundreds of times before. Those first moments with the squirming whelp were the ones she lived for most. The sensation of bringing a crying being to her breast was powerful and the tug of its suckling gasps stirred powerful emotions within her. She could almost imagine something different in those instances, a time and place not like that where she lived. The thoughts were ugly, almost, but desirous at the same time. In those instances, just like instinct's pervading will, she could see herself as something different. Light, airy, filled with joy. She was another being then, graceful and delicate, good and lifted by song. Smooth. Shining. Beautiful. But only in those first moments when she nursed her newborn child did she feel these things. And they did not last, could not last. They were dangerous and not something she spoke of, and even in her dreams she was aware of that. She kept her thoughts hidden.

But she was not alone in having them. Nearly every orc female had cried when their babe had been torn from their arms. All relished the feeling that those moments brought.

Yet she knew why the mutts were taken. It was a matter of survival for both mother and child. The babes grew too fast and a mother who risked keeping them too long put her life at risk. She remembered a time when she had been given leave to hunt. There was another female in their pack too, and for some reason that one had been allowed to go with the pack even though she was near her time to birth. True to caution, they had been separated from the tower longer than expected and the female's time came. Short hours later, the whelping orc had been born and the mother nursed him. It was days later when they finally made it back to the tower but the mother was no longer with them. Not willing to be separated from her spawn, the child satisfied a need greater than the milk she offered him. While she slept with him cradled in her arms, he had found his teeth and soon discovered her blood. He sucked her bloodless while she slept.

The queen awoke to the sounds of commotion. The males were roused and ready and she could smell their excitement. Her mate was speaking.

"The elves have drawn away. There's only few left between here and a safe place. We set out tonight for the fields."

"Tonight? Ain't that a dangerous thing?" and Irgluk knew they meant in it was dangerous to travel with _her_ as she was. She could feel all eyes upon her.

"We're not welcome in these woods no more," the leader argued.

"But the sun'll find us in the open lands!" one in the pack cried.

"If we make short work of it we have the rest of the night to dig our burrows. We head for the mountains," the leader answered.

"The mountains? Why not just find another hiding place here?" an orc that Irgluk thought dull-witted asked.

"We kill, but more follow," the leader orc excused. "The tower is destroyed. The wraith lords don't return. The world feels dangerous. We do not get along as we had."

"How do we know we will be accepted there in them mountains?" another asked.

"There's orcs there, and if they live in these same times, they face the same as us. They will welcome our numbers," the leader said then eyed Irgluk, "and our strengths."

"But we can't cross to the mountains in a night," one orc meekly offered.

"So long as we're smart 'bout it and bury ourselves 'afore light, we can travel the distance." He laughed then, and the evil sound made the hairs on the back of Irgluk's neck stand up. "An' if the spirit of the Dark Lord is with us, 'haps we'll find others to kill along the way."

Others laughed then, but Irgluk thought it a presumptuous notion. She felt overwhelmed by the alien feeling of the world and she did not think things went in their favor. For the first time she felt she had no where she might go to. Someone voiced the same thought. "But will killing make it better?"

The leader pushed into the group, grabbing the questioner by the collar. Snarling into his face, the lead orc said, "Elves're out there. We seen 'em leavin' across the fields a few weeks ago." He pushed the orc away for effect. "Keep a sharp eye. They hafta come back this way. And if so, it might be we have one more kill in us 'afore we leave these lands for good."

And then Irgluk realized he was right. What was important was the moment. They had lived that way in the dark tower and that is how they would live now. That greater sense of self was pointless, for they were servants of darkness, not leaders. And so, just as her primal nature led her to spawn a tribe of new orcs, so too was her desire to kill elves. And gazing around, she saw the bloodlust in them all. Killing overruled all other concerns. She licked her lips then and whetted her knife. Pushing aside all else, she decided then that she would look forward to the journey.

**TBC**

**A/N:** So I have a question... a concern really. I'm noticing the hits for this story have been declining dramatically as of late and I'm wondering if it's something I'm doing. Obviously if you are reading this, you are not one of the ones who have fallen away and your guess is probably as good as mine. What I'm really trying to find out is if this site is the right place to post this tale for the best readership. It's big and thick and not something you dive into for a quick read. Those who follow must be willing to commit to a book length tale. Not every site has an audience to accommodate that well. Personally I like Stories of Arda and I'd post there, but slash, even in mild form, is forbidden by the site owners. That door is closed. So do you have any other recommendations? Where do _you_ like to read fanfic?


	36. Quiet Storm

**A/N:** I am a day or two late in my pledge to update every two weeks. I'm sorry. This chapter asked for some edits and polish in the last moments, and I chose to give them.

Before you read let me just thank everyone who responded in either a review of private email to my query posted in the last chapter. You blew me away! What wonderful replies! I'm not giving up this story, I just wanted to know why readers were falling away.

There are a few of you who worried that I might take the critique as harsh, but I assure you I read everything in a positive light and agree with almost all said. Besides, I knew I was inviting commentary when I posted. Everything is welcome. Thank you, thank you!

As for my reply, I know this story is thick and somewhat difficult to read. It's not a quick, fangirl story -- so true! But there are plenty of those out there and I don't feel much like rushing to an end. I think this story would be unrealistic if I did. My only wish is that I if I could I would _write _faster as to make this move at the same speed as many of those other fics. I suppose if I dedicated more hours of the day to writing... but my family would tell you I'm torn in too many directions as it is, so I guess I have to be happy for the output I do manage.

Many of you are frustrated and want to see Legolas' side of the tale. All I can say is there is a reason I've delayed it. Not telling you why. Nope, not yet. The good news is that we are two chapters away from being done with Part II, and after that it will be all-Legolas-all-the-time through Part III. Heck, you may even get bored with him after awhile. Part IV will bring everyone together again for final resolutions. I do have a plan you see. Hopefully the payoff for plodding along with me into non-Legolas territory will be worth it in the end.

Some of you don't like our orcs. I have to laugh at that! I don't want Irgluk to be liked. Pitied maybe, but not liked. But I will admit that the she-orc is somewhat gratuitous matter on my part. She has a purpose, though I suppose I could tell this story without really going into her circumstances. In fact, there was a time that I weighed not including her at all. Yet in the end I decided I liked her as an allegory, a symbol. To me she represents the dark side of self as well as redemption. I think she's important. Besides, I like stories that have hidden meaning. We'll see what you think of her when all is done.

So that said, enjoy this latest offering! And please do not hesitate to leave a review telling me what you might think. One word or a thousand, your comments are always, always welcome!

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_**Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty-Five: Quiet Storm**_

They were beyond the borders of Caras Galadhon and it was the day after the last, just as Gimli had requested it be before this journey began. The hardy dwarf stood on his own feet though he knew he was not really ready to do so. He was indeed still ill. Yet he was glad, despite the toil beset upon him by making this early journey. Though the dwarf would never be remiss in keeping company with Galadriel and her folk, he knew there were more pressing matters that demanded his attention, and the safety of his friend was foremost among them.

He feared for Legolas, so much so that he was willing to shortcut his own recovery in order to give his aid. They had been attacked and injured, and though he held hope for his friend's safety, a long time had passed since they had been separated. He knew Legolas well enough to conjure up a multitude of scenarios that kept the elf away. Usually they placed the elf searching for Gimli in and around Fangorn, and though those thoughts brought guilt to the dwarf, they also gave him surety that Legolas was safe. But those scenes did not play well when Gimli factored in the amount of time that had passed. A fortnight, and then some. Legolas would not been about his search for so long, and had he been hale he would have done just as Gimli had; he would have come to Lothlorien for aid. That he did not doomed the dwarf to believing a myriad of alternate scenarios in which Legolas had suffered a dire fate. Elf-kind or not, Legolas could be injured, and Gimli feared terribly that such had come to be.

So they had left, seeking out his friend. He and Thranduil. They made this journey together and never in his wildest imaginings could he have put such a picture together.

The dwarf stretched. He felt as if it should be far later in the day, but gazing to the sky he could see it was only the midday hour. He felt weary and stiff and his head pained him. That only added to his grim mood. But he also felt glad to be out of his bed. He knew that he was pushing himself in this endeavor -- likely he would suffer for it later when all was done -- but Legolas needed him now as he never had, and Gimli was nothing if not a stalwart and loyal friend. He traveled now for the sake of one in need, for loath though he was to admit it, he was certain that if he did not, Legolas would die.

Still, his body ached. He and his companions had found a place of rest outside the wood, giving Arod a short break for the second time this day from his task. Also they waited for yet more of the company to come, and though eager, Gimli was grateful for the halt. He'd forgotten how wearying riding could be even if the ride had been at a slow walk, and for his part he was happy to distance himself from the mental battle he had been struggling with in his ride. It would be upon him again soon enough, but for now he relished the peace brought to his mind. It was far easier to suffer just in anxiety than to be subject to such doubts as he had felt through the morning journey.

He looked around at the landscape, trying to find some strength and vigor in knowing that they were underway. The wood was at their backs instead of surrounding them, and open lands lay before them. To the west he could see the mountains, blue and smoky, whispers of winter snow already painting the peaks. A breeze brought the chill touch of colder weather with it, but for now it was a brilliant day, and if not with the warmth of prior seasons, the climate would remain mild for a time longer. Gimli inhaled deeply, finding the cool air modestly reviving him, dulling his aches and his doubts.

He came to sit, his back resting in the nook created by one of the last of the mallorns on the fringes of the golden wood. He eased himself into the cranny, gazing about him and remembering the day without the fog of an uneasy mind. Clarity was returning to him after his dismount from the back of the horse. He frowned, silently realizing the reasoning behind his difficulty. It stemmed from the shared ride. He and Thranduil had ridden together. Even from its outset it was to the dwarf's chagrin that they had done so, but Gimli truly had not been in a position to demand much. Despite the knowledge he wielded over the elf while they had been within Lothlorien's borders, now that they were beyond the great settlement and, with it, Galadriel and Celeborn's scrutiny. Thranduil was in control. Strangely, even though the elf king did not wear his Ring, he was the master of the moment.

But perhaps that was the way it was meant. In these hours, Gimli had come to realize just what the king experienced as a ring-bearer and he was beginning to see Thranduil through an unfiltered spectrum. The Lord of Mirkwood was not quite the elf Gimli had thought. Given distance now, the dwarf saw both frailty and surety in the king, hesitancy and thoughtful contemplation, even impertinence combined with patience. It all seemed a strange jumble of traits, but at the same time it seemed to be a truer register than Gimli had noted before. In many ways, he almost admired Thranduil for the strength he started to recognize hidden in the recesses of the elf's will. Elements of his friend were mixed in all of this as well, and he would readily admit he liked these peculiarities in Legolas.

It had been strange to see Thranduil's face in the dim, pre-dawn light. That was when their combined venture had begun. The elf had helped him escape the Houses of Healing. Gimli had been startled at first, blinking to wakefulness with his dreams still prodding his sense of awareness and causing the dwarf confusion. If the king's voice were less deep and his jaw less stern, the illusion would have been complete; waking to this, Gimli had momentarily thought the elf Legolas and that they were off on another one of their adventures. Oft in their latest days were they rising and leaving in the early morning light. But Gimli had recovered enough so as not to appear befuddled before the king; it was only in his awareness that he felt off-balance. But once he was grounded he was capable of realizing Thranduil journeyed without wearing the Ring. This too had startled him and started him on this endeavor of contemplation.

Not that the Ring was far. Gimli could feel It. Like that of the Ring Frodo had borne, Thranduil's Ring had weight, a personality it might be called. It had a voice, though it was not resonant and commanding like that which the One Ring had. This Ring felt more like a yearning, a pull upon the dwarf, and Gimli suspected It was calling him. But Gimli was more resilient than that. He had resisted the lure of the One Ring for months and months, and if he could withstand that, he could resist the desires instilled by this lesser Ring. Or so he thought.

Of course there were Rings that could do good, and now that Sauron had been destroyed, Gimli imagined the original intent of Thranduil's Dwarf Ring had been restored. But Gimli also had to imagine the Ring had been tainted by the evil that had possessed It all those years, and so he still thought It a tool of devilry.

Yet he conceded good magic could be found through the many Rings that had been crafted. After all, he attributed much of his own healing to the Ring Galadriel wore. All through the prior day Galadriel had plied him with her drink and ministrations._ As if she knew I planned to leave and was doing what she could to heal me while I yet remained_, he thought. For any reason, he was grateful to her.

Still, he was lucky his legs held him, hence his need to sit with the tree to support him. In fact the world was quite lopsided and strange and he felt as if he were on the deck of some roiling ship. But for the sake of getting to Legolas quickly, he would do this and more. The memories of his dreams had not left him, and though he was not prescient by any means, when it came to elves, he was willing to accept magic as a part of their makeup and that he had been gifted with insights too whilst in their presence. He'd seen too much evidence of magic to quibble otherwise.

After Thranduil had helped him leave his bed Gimli had been left to wait while Thranduil had gone to fetch Arod. Gimli had shaken his head with dark chagrin when he saw that the horse followed the elf king of its own accord, as if he had been following Legolas. Gimli wondered if it would have been so had Thranduil had been wearing the Ring just then and he narrowed his eyes thinking perhaps not. He drew strength from that thought, pulling from his reserve of anger. He could not forget his anger in all of this.

The dwarf had hoped they would have no encounters along the way for he was not sure how they would explain themselves. In a short time though he realized that was not to be the case. Their discovery came.

Seemingly appearing out of nothing, a tall, broad figure emerged from the shadows. Fair in hair like all the Galadhrim, this elf had been muscled in greater mass than much of his kin though his eyes had been just as keen. A spark of amusement had danced in them for a moment before a mask of cool detachment had come over the full of his features. Glancing first at Gimli in a discerning fashion, and then at Thranduil, the elf of the Golden Wood had spoken, directing his words to the elf king.

"You leave?" Haldir had asked simply enough, and Gimli smiled inwardly at the memory. The warden was not an elf of expansive words though Gimli sensed in this simple question that Haldir was glad to see the elf king leave.

"I do," Thranduil had answered succinctly as well. There was a note of arrogance in his reply and again Gimli read the subtle hint of dislike between the two though he couldn't really perceive reason.

The Lothlorien elf had then glanced at Gimli before turning his gaze again on the elf king. "He travels with you," Haldir had stated. There was no question in his voice this time.

Thranduil hesitated for only a moment before drawing up to his full height. "He does," he had replied in proud demeanor and Gimli found himself looking again to see if the Ring had been there upon the king's hand. It had not though the elf's confidence would have made him think it so.

The marchwarden had nodded then, seeming to accept this. The need for further conversation had apparently been unmet. "The sun rises and the day progresses," he had said, turning to Gimli. "Let us get you upon your mount so that you may make your way well."

Stunned by the unquestioning manner in this reply, Gimli had been left to stammer, "You-- you aid us?" He had not thought it would be so easy to leave.

Haldir had blinked once at the dwarf, then had glanced again at the elf king before turning back to Gimli in answer. He offered his arm in assistance and Gimli had gladly taken it. "I understand your mission, Gimli Gloinson of Erebor, and for those that would ask I interpret it as needs be: you go on a simple ride. Will that not suffice?"

Gimli was surprised in this answer for he had expected they would encounter some resistance, arguments that he should not leave when so ill. Further he thought Thranduil might face an offer of aid from his elf kin, a gesture that would have demanded they remain until Gimli was more healed. He had not expected this easy acceptance.

With a fluid gesture Haldir then had cupped his hands and foisted the dwarf onto Arod's back before the dwarf even had time to think about the action. "You will be gone a short while, I assume, doing nothing more than riding about these forest lands. That is what I will tell any who might ask."

"Is that what you will tell your lady?" Thranduil had murmured, and it was in this query that the dwarf saw Haldir's face register foreboding. Gimli noted it because he felt it himself. There was derision in the words 'your lady' that, though subtle, marked Thranduil's disdain for the queen of these fair woods. _That is why Haldir feels no affection for the king,_ Gimli thought, and he could understand for at that moment he felt much the same.

Haldir's brow had knitted as he drew Gimli's hands about the withers. It appeared he considered the kings words. "You fear that I would betray you? I think it is the Healers you should fear more, my lord, not the Lady. Our fair Galadriel shares your cause, whereas," he smiled ruefully, "Healers are no friend to me."

Gimli had glanced at Thranduil then, and something of remorse flitted in the king's eyes. If Gimli were to put words to the wave of those emotions, he would say the elf felt a change of heart. But the change was fleeting, and a moment later Thranduil had schooled his expression and he was again masked in complacency. "Very well then. We would be off if you should give us leave."

Haldir nodded. "A simple ride around the wood then, as I said. The Healers will not think Gloinson well enough, but I oft find time in the wood to be more healing than time abed. It is a curative many of my people would adhere to. Let us see you off."

That was all that was said for a time. Haldir led them on, not parting them but guiding, and Arod had followed without being directed. After a short while Gimli realized they were going by a shortened route, one that did not circle the city but rather cut through it. This was a gift, he knew, for several hours were being lessened from their trip though the dwarf had found himself exhausted and stiff despite the narrowed journey. Further, they encountered few in those dim hours and were left on their way without any other question. Still it was a few hours later when they had stopped for a rest and Gimli had been glad to step down from his mount and stretch.

"The remains of your entourage arrive," Haldir had announced then, looking off into what distance the wood provided. "This is not the full of your contingent though."

Thranduil's eyes had followed his and he had nodded as three more elves appeared carrying packs and supplies. Unlike the Galadhrim, they were clad in greens and greys, and Gimli had recognized them immediately as elves from Mirkwood.

"I had sent out scouts several days ago when Galadriel first told me we should seek Fangorn Forest," Thranduil supplied as if they had been conversing all along on this road. "They search the perimeters of that wood looking for signs of my son. But those soldiers have not returned from their missions yet. We will hope that they find us as we journey further. My cousin would not have me travel unescorted."

Haldir nodded in agreement. "A king should not go unprotected," he said. He then quirked a brow and turned to Gimli. He unfastened the knife he kept at his belt and handed it to the dwarf. "You may need this." Gimli felt gratified. He had known he was traveling without weapons, having left his own in Fangorn, but he had had little choice. Had he had been leaving in a more formal setting he might have asked if the elves had a blade or two they might spare. But leaving in clandestine fashion as they were, he had not had the opportunity to make such inelegant requests. Gratefully, Haldir had anticipated his need. The weapon was not an axe, but it had a sharp blade and a well-crafted handle. It was a good tool.

Turning back to the elf king, Haldir had then said, "I know few warriors as fierce as Gimli of the Lonely Mountain and I am sure my lady would concur. None can now say you will go unguarded, Lord Thranduil."

He had then stepped to the river stream beside which their path had meandered. Gimli had then recognized the place. The small bed was the Nimrodel where the Fellowship had once taken healing from the waters. From across his shoulder, Haldir had drawn off his waterskin. Uncorking it, he had dipped it into the water and refilled the flask. The companions in Thranduil's party had then done the same as Haldir stepped away, recorking the bottle, and handing it over to the dwarf.

He had followed this action then by unclasping his cape and throwing it over the dwarf's shoulders. The temperature was much different from when he had last been in the elements. The air had been sultry and thick then; now it was crisp and chilled. Gimli's clothes had been clean and mended, but when he and Legolas had been attacked, he had been caught in the rain without his helm or armor or his Galadhrim cape. That loss had contributed to his feeling of vulnerability. But this gift from Haldir had helped.

But the next part of this recollection made Gimli frown. Haldir had then turned to briefly gaze at Thranduil and again at the others. Haldir had fixed his eyes upon the dwarf and questioned, "Who rides with you now?"

It had taken Gimli a moment to understand the meaning of that question. For the first time that morning, Gimli had found himself at odds with the elf. "With me? No one rides with me. We set out together, but to ride, I do this alone," he had exclaimed.

But Haldir had shaken his head. "Your horse is hesitant to let you do such, and it was my understanding Legolas always directed when you jointly sat this mount," he had said.

Gimli had looked at the horse then just as he did now. He scowled as he recalled that the animal had pushed his snout into the dwarf's shoulder as if he were giving him a jocular shove. _As if he had been saying, 'So he did!'_ Gimli thought. In present he wondered if a conspiracy was afoot, for Legolas, like Haldir, oft put words into this beast's mouth. But Gimli had ignored the first part of the comment, and had addressed the second. "Legolas is not here with me. I will ride alone."

But Haldir again had shaken his head. "That would not be wise." One brow shot up as he had explained, "Your cure has been swift, but I have been watching and your strength is not fully returned. It would be prudent for you to have an experienced rider with you in case you find yourself weakening."

"You just proclaimed me a fierce warrior!" Though the dwarf had known him right, he had argued all the same. "I do not weaken."

Haldir had pursed his lips as if he were about to retort, but instead Thranduil had interjected, "I will ride with him." Haldir had smiled then and it was clear this was exactly what he had been looking for.

Of course, Gimli was not pleased by this. But they had journeyed this far and in Gimli's mind there was no turning back. Further, he had no leverage over Haldir and so was lost for an argument. Instead, he had dropped his gaze, essentially admitting he would not fight. He might be physically ill but his mind was not muddled. He could contrive reason to acquiesce to this request and the king's closeness would give him opportunity to speak his mind as space would not.

One of Thranduil's people, a valet or aide, Gimli guessed, had been at Thranduil's side then, offering his cupped hands, and the elf quickly had mounted, followed next by the dwarf, sitting in his customary place as he did with Legolas; he sat at the king's back. It was then that Gimli had felt the Ring nearest and knew Thranduil carried It even if he did not wear It.

Their parting then from Haldir was simple, without any fanfare. The elf had simply uttered the customary words of departure and faded into the shroud of the forest spaces.

And so they set on, their journey simply theirs now. Silence had fallen over the group.

Gimli had never been a talkative fellow. Among dwarves he was considered somewhat remote. Yet while upon the Quest, he had been a vociferous fellow, speaking more for the sake of assuring the Hobbits than revealing his true self. He preferred it though when he had been left to Legolas alone. His more silent nature came out then, and Legolas never prodded him for conversation when they were out in the wilds. There, stealth was important and the elf appreciated that. Still, Gimli knew on this journey that it would be upon him to speak. He felt it his duty to examine the reasoning of this elf's actions and to make Thranduil realize the harm he had caused.

If only he could.

It was the feelings the Ring stirred that took over his mind and, in that way, their journey.

It was powerful and distracting though he did not realize It was acting upon him until he had dismounted and was now in the present. Being so near. It was disconcerting and It hampered Gimli's certainty of everything including the need to bear conversation with this elf.

From the very minute they set out, riding together, he began to doubt himself. The silence of the elves was peaceable and comforting, and like his journeying with Legolas he felt secure in it. To speak meant he would destroy that, and if he were to do so he should better be ready with his arguments. But those did not seem so heavy now that he was in the company of Thranduil. It had been easier to hate the elf when he had not been with him. He wondered for a time if it might be better to leave off at what had happened between Legolas and his father, to keep the matter theirs alone. After all, this was not his dispute; it belonged to his friend.

But then the memory of Legolas' pain assaulted him, and he knew for his friend that he must become involved. Could he truly let this elf confront Legolas without the dwarf expressing his place as a supporter? Legolas needed him to anchor his resolve. Thranduil should know, truly, what he had done, for if nothing else Gimli felt certain Legolas would not openly bring up past wounds. _He'll skirt the issue_, the dwarf thought, _masking his hurts and never getting to the heart of it_. That was what Legolas had done before. So like an elf, never speaking his mind directly. And so Gimli mustered again his will to speak, using ire to encourage him. He thought too that the elf king had shown that he could not be parted from his jewel. This angered him as well; it showed weakness on the elf's part.

But in the next moment he was left to contemplate the opposite. When he considered the possessive power the One Ring had had he supposed it was no small thing to even remove such a gem from one's hand. He wavered, thinking the elf king bore unseen strength. But then he relinquished, remembering again his friend's suffering at the hands of this elf, resolving to speak once more.

Yet again he wondered if it was really his place to speak. He was no elf. Certainly there must be reasons as to why Thranduil acted as he did, for none except those purely driven by evil were compelled to dark acts. Desperate as the dwarf was to hate the king, he did not find Thranduil to be thoroughly a creature of evil. In fact, despite the king's blustering ways, compared with the darkness Gimli had met on his journeys, Thranduil barely registered as a source of harm. Nay, this was not his to engage in!

At present though, Legolas could not speak for himself. And what if he never did! What if, in the end, they found his elf friend dead, shorn from this life simply because he sought answers to what his father had done to him? Could Gimli simply let such a thing go without expressing his disdain for what the elf did? Further, would he not want to know why such things had even happened? He must speak!

But the mental battle waged kept words from coming. In all several hours passed in silent jousting and Gimli felt as if he had been arguing with Thranduil throughout. His head pained him for his struggles, and he wondered if he had it in him to continue in such close proximity to the source of his puzzlement. It was the Ring that was doing this to him.

And now they rested. The distance from the king and his unseen jewel was blissful reprieve.

They rested.

They had picked up two more elves in this wait, both dressed in the greens and grays that marked them as Mirkwood elves. They were only seven in the company, himself included. He would have expected more in the king's guard.

"We may meet up with more of my warriors as we travel," Thranduil then said as if reading his thoughts and thus breaking the silence of their camp.

But as they waited no more elves came and Gimli, from his distance, marked impatience emanating from his host. He felt similarly. The quiet storm of their journey so far was over. It was time to speak his mind and somehow he would muster the strength to do such. Knowing now Its influence, he decided the Ring would not keep him from it.

xxxxxxxxxx

They waited. Irgluk could feel her heart beating in apprehension as they did. Dark premonitions danced in her mind, nervous hesitancy gripping her. She feared death was near though she had no clear reason for believing this.

She knew, given the mood of quiet excitement elicited by the other orcs around her that she should feel victorious. None could have predicted their current situation; in her assessment, they were lucky just to be alive. The elves' invasion of their hiding place had taken them completely by surprise. Fortunately the elves that had come upon them had been surprised too, not anticipating their foe's huge number when they had seemingly wandered upon the den. The three elves traveling over these fields between the wood and the mountains had come to death quickly under orc blades. That did not change the way she felt though. A strange wariness laid upon her in her worry, and she felt heavy with the thought of it.

The others seemed not to notice her ill feelings. They feasted on the bodies of the dead while they shored up their burrows. They were free of Mirkwood's eaves and far out in the plains, but still they had a distance to travel before they would reach the mountains their leader was guiding them to. The daylight hours weakened them and so they had taken to digging holes in the earth in those last hours of the night so that they might hide from the sun. They would leave their current hole when the day moved to evening.

But in the meantime she felt her anxiety mount. She could not stop imagining that there were more elves out there, waiting to attack. It was her experience that elves did not roam in small numbers unless they were scouts for a larger force. And should she be right, she was surely doomed, for her fetal sac had broken and the pains were starting to come. It would not be long before the birthing process would overwhelm her and she would be so overcome by it that she would be useless in a fight. The only good she saw was that once the labor progressed it would only be a short while before the babe would be out of her belly.

Until then, she hunkered down into her hole and waited for the inevitable to come. She had no gods that she could pray to, but she clung to something that she could not even name -- an instinct perhaps -- that if she put an open plea out to the world at large her worries might be allayed and she would be saved. She had nothing else. And so she sat alone, her pains her only company as her final fate drew near from the plains above and around her.

**TBC**


	37. Stab at the Heart

**Dark Forest**  
_**By Anarithilien**_

_**Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty-Five: Stab at the Heart**_

The elf king waited at the appointed place but none of his guard came. Thranduil was left to ponder the meaning of their absence. They should have returned to him at dawn. If some ill fate had befallen them, he was not sure what that would do to their mission. Amending this thought, the elf looked inward and realized he should be wondering what might he say to their kin as well. He glanced at his aide, Inirion, as he considered this. The elf's brother was among those missing soldiers.

Of course there was the dwarf to consider as well. Like one who has long-evaded the snares of a clever trap, Thranduil knew he had come to a point of reckoning for his deeds. Strangely though, his anxiety for his own plight was not his concern. He could not think on the lives of the others in his protection either. Not truly. Not yet. It was too much to bear, their lives and his. What of his son? That was his chief concern.

Gazing about at the anxious faces of his people, he realized they awaited his action. His fears weighed on him though, and he felt pressed by his doubts. What should he say? Do? They would have him lead, but was it wise to travel without the rest of their guard? He pressed a hand to his brow. He could not answer these questions. All concerns beyond his son seemed superfluous and he knew that this one worry would be what drove them, not some declaration of greater interests. His was a personal mission.

Still, he wondered at his heart. Legolas had been an independent elf choosing his own destiny for many a year now. Though there were lapses in his resolve, in these last years Thranduil had relinquished his concerns for Legolas, allowing his son to be as he would without the guidance of a father or king. And never in these years had he felt such great fear as he did now.

The fact that he did not wear a Ring at this moment might factor into his feelings. But he noted that in the past when he had forsaken his gem he could recognize his actions with more clarity. Now he felt no relief of guilt; he felt blind fear. And that fear only made him want to don It all the more.

Still, he had his reasons for discarding It. It was true that the Ring gave him stamina of heart but it also masked his perceptions. When he wore It he felt as if he were locked away in a vault. But now with those walls removed he could feel the siren's call of nature, and he used that to send his heart out to his son. Legolas was still alive; this he could sense. But Thranduil could also feel that his spirit was fading. Since hearing Gimli's tale, he feared it was the sea that pulled at the young elf's soul. _Cuivear _had such dread effects.

The elf king gazed again about him. Gimli's presence did not help. In fact it made the Ring call out for greater attention and Thranduil already felt greatly stressed by the mounting despair in his heart. The stunted creature had said few words since they had set off, but he could sense the animosity exuding there. It took no extra effort to notice it, no need for a Ring to realize it.

He took a calming breath and turned his eyes out upon the Celebrant Fields. The plains were open and untainted for a very far distance. In the brightness of day, nothing of danger lay before them. Leagues away, ribbons of glistening light reflected off the tributaries of the Limlight. All was calm ahead.

Would that his heart might say the same for what was before them.

Yet behind him was the dwarf with burning ire. And further were his people awaiting his resolve. "Let us be on our way," Thranduil announced, deciding his impatience would not rest as he made way to the awaiting horse.

Grimacing, Gimli slowly rose, taking a moment to find his balance before noisily making way to the horse as well. The king chose to ignore his pale appearance. They could not be stayed by illness and he had already witnessed the dwarf's ambivalence when he was thought of as weak. He thought then how he would have preferred to make this journey without his son's companion but he needed the dwarf to lead the way. And somehow he knew that if he was to regain Legolas' trust it would be with the buffer of this diminutive being.

He lightly pulled himself onto the back of the horse. Inirion was there then, as always the faithful servant, and drew the dwarf into his seat on the horse as well, receiving a murmur of appreciation in the exchange. But all civility was put aside once the dwarf was astride the beast. To the king Gimli said in stern voice, "I will speak with you now."

Inirion blinked wide eyes at the forward nature of dwarf, but relaxed to a stoic expression as he glanced to the king. Thranduil's servant knew him well for the king had made it his practice to be addressed with a modicum of formality, even among familiars. After all these years leading and protecting his people, Thranduil certainly did not appreciate the tone of the dwarf's demand, for it was ambivalent and certainly not a request. But evenly he corrected, "If we must speak, it will be with respect and courtesy, Master Dwarf."

"As given, so shall it be returned," the dwarf replied curtly but he appeared contrite as if realizing the abrupt quality of his words.

Thranduil turned his attention then to the dwarf, resigning himself to the conversation that was surely to come. This was not going to be easy.

Of course, the horse sensed his mood and sidestepped as it adjusted to its rider. Thranduil drew a deep breath then, finding this small action aided in quelling his raw feelings, thus taming the horse's agitation.

It was then that he realized he had not bothered to ask of the animal's name. Acknowledging the presence of old prejudices, he could tell himself he had failed to ask simply because he had not wished to engage in conversation with the dwarf. But the truth was he had been so caught up in his worries that he had not taken notice of the absence of speech between them. He thought perhaps he might try to speak now, if for no other reason than to soothe the beast's nervousness, though he hoped it might also lead them to a more civil discourse. "What name does this horse go by?" the king asked.

The dwarf seemed stunned to be asked anything by the king and he did not immediately answer, as if weighing the validity of this question before choosing to answer. "He came to us with the name _Arod_," Gimli finally replied.

The king patted the horse's neck as he simultaneously nodded to his men, indicating that they should begin to march. He moved the horse forward with a subtle shift in his weight. Fortunately, Gimli did not seem to put any effort into directing, trusting Thranduil to maneuver the animal for them. Thranduil smiled briefly. Clearly this was something his son would have taught the dwarf.

He quickly glanced over his shoulder, seeing his position among his guard. He and the dwarf were yards ahead, yet he wanted more distance so that his men would not overhear their words. If the dwarf wished to speak, they would, but he would not have others eavesdrop on their conversation. He urged Arod forward with a click of his tongue, moving the animal at a faster pace.

"Arod," the elf repeated. "The name means _noble_ in the grey tongue."

The dwarf nodded. "So Legolas had told me. He also said the name might mean something other in the Rohan speech but that he thought it fitting and did not query further into the meaning for those people."

"Noble is indeed a fitting name," the king nodded, agreeing. The horse had good lines and a broad chest, holding his head up proudly and stepping with a graceful gait. Arod's ears pivoted, as if he knew the discussion centered around him, and the king spurred him into a light trot. "Did Legolas tell you then the _dínpeth_ for this animal?" he asked.

"_Dínpeth_?" Gimli asked, sounding uncertain of the words.

"His 'silent name.' The moniker the animal would know in his heartsong, beyond the verbal call of his outward name," Thranduil supplied, but the dwarf only shook his head.

Thranduil felt the shrugged reply when Gimli answered in words. "I do not know what it is you speak of."

The king frowned. "It is a personal call -- a secret name -- that the horse and rider use to commune with one another as well as those that might speak in the nature of Iluvatar's song. It is likened to a bond. Elves use it so that the animal might know his master's commands in thought, without words being said. Of course, all one can really command with any obeisance is simple actions, but it can be an effective way of riding. Legolas did not tell you of this?"

Thranduil could guess that the dwarf's brow was furrowing, even if he did not have a direct view of the small one's face. Gimli shook his head. "I have never heard him mention any kind of a secret name, though he and the horse did seem to communicate." He chuckled lightly then, surprising Thranduil in this. "I thought it was my imagination that they conspired against me."

Had Thranduil known Legolas had not shared the _dínpeth_ of the animal he might never have spoken of it. He had assumed it had been told to Gimli because of the infamy of their friendship, but now he saw it had not. He knew so little of dwarves. Was it possible that, like men, they did not hear the Song? And though he had not meant it, he too found himself chuckling. If true, Legolas had pulled a prank on the dwarf.

It was not an original jest. Many elves had convinced the men of Dale that horses could comprehend all actions of men and that they even had opinions on them. And those men, unable to hear the internal voice, did not realize the elves simply used _dínpeth_ to get the animals to snort, stomp, shake their heads, or act any other number of small actions on command. They became convinced the elves spoke deep, rich philosophical conversations with their horses. They probably thought they talked to trees the same way.

Gimli seemed to understand that he had been made a fool, but he did not seem to mind. Instead he said, "And I was convinced this horse did not like me."

"Arod?" Thranduil asked, feeling suddenly charmed by his son's charade. "Arod likes you very much." The horse groaned, shaking his head as if to negate this statement.

The dwarf shifted, chuckling again, "Now I know where Legolas learned his humor." Thranduil enjoyed the rich sound of Gimli's laughter. But the humor seemed to fall away as soon as the dwarf realized it was Thranduil with whom he was sharing this moment of merry.

There was an awkward pause in their conversation, and then Gimli spoke. "Dwarves have secret names too. Did you know this?" In fact Thranduil did not.

"What would yours be?" the elf asked, trying to keep the conversation alive, but he heard a snort in reply.

"If I told you it would not be a secret, now would it?" the dwarf retorted.

Thranduil smiled to himself, amused though still on edge. He knew the dwarf was taking his time. The questions soon would come, but Thranduil would delay them with questions of his own. "Does Legolas know of it?" he asked. He was treading into dangerous territory, but he would approach their differences on his own terms if he could.

"Legolas and I have shared much. He knows things of dwarves few outside my race do," came the answer, and though his question had not been answered, Thranduil nodded.

"Has he shared much with you about the ways of elves?" he asked.

"He has told me much of elves... and of _you_, Lord Elf," came the answer, and Thranduil knew in this reply that many dark secrets had been revealed to Gimli. It seemed the dwarf had been privy to the truths of both the father and the son.

Thranduil paused to absorb this. He had been fearful of this moment, but now that it was upon him he realized the dwarf's knowledge was not really what plagued him. "Has Legolas told you what it means to suffer from Sea-Longing?"

Gimli did not reply right away, and Thranduil wondered if the dwarf was trying to gather his words. But after a long moment passed, Gimli answered in a soft voice, "He does not speak on it much. I think it pains him." And this too was a confession.

Thranduil closed his eyes in quiet hurt. He had feared as much. "He has no one to offer him succor. That is why he suffers."

He could feel the dwarf sit up taller, as if the words had been an affront. "I aid him where I might."

Thranduil nodded his head and turned so the dwarf could partly see his affirmation. "I do not doubt it. You are quite ... amusing. But you are not an elf, and none but another elf can do what is necessary in such a case. And even then, it must be an elf with a close bond."

"Such as the bond between a father and son?" the dwarf asked, prying.

Thranduil nodded in answer and the dwarf questioned again, pressing to his own agenda.

"And if there is no such bond?" Gimli asked.

Thranduil winced. He knew what Gimli was saying, but there were greater matters at hand than the rift between his son and himself. "_Cuivear_... the Sea-Longing... it will destroy him in due time if he does not gain comfort from its assault," Such an elementary response was not what he wished to convey, but he chose to give in this way so the dwarf might understand. _Cuivear_ was difficult even for elves to understand for it had no bearing as a physical disease. Instead it was a dawning ache, a pain drawn from the heart. But hearing Gimli's response and query, Thranduil's own heart drew an ache, for he felt a renewal of his greater fear. Dissent between them or not, Legolas had not spoken to his friend of remedying his illness.

"Yet Legolas is strong," Gimli asserted. "He can withstand much. Our travels have proven that. And he has a valiant heart. He has pledged his service and allegiance to Elassar of Gondor. He will not be parted until Aragorn takes his final breath. I have no reason to doubt him true."

But the elf shook his head. Clearly this dwarf did not understand the affliction he was attempting to explain. His voice rose as fear overtook his level calm, "Without succor Legolas will find his own parting is unto the paths that weave their way to Mando's Halls!" He felt shame for his sudden temper, but he could not refrain from his impatience. Ignorance would not help them. The dwarf must know the dangers. "No pledge to Man can halt this! He suffers the Call as the Valar would have it. They make it so he might answer Them, and should he ignore it he will come to Them in death far sooner than any passing of a mortal life! Does he know anything of this illness?" But in speaking it Thranduil suddenly realized his son did not. In fact, there was only one instance of the Sea-Longing he was certain his son had witnessed.

In equally stern tones, the dwarf replied, voicing the king's thoughts. "He knows that his mother died of the same!"

"Ai!" Thranduil cried, feeling the sting of the words. He knew they would come, but not with the intent to stab as these did. Still, it was his son that concerned him. Bowing his head, he realized this grim truth. "He knows not! Valar help me! O Laeraniel, what have I done?" he gasped.

With a snarl, Gimli barked retort. "You dare invoke her name! It was you who held her back on her quest when she suffered such illness herself! And now you call out to her in entreaty?" Thranduil did not need to see the dwarf's face to know that they had come upon the start of their debate.

But Thranduil would defend himself if he could. "Is that what Legolas told you? That I held her back? How tainted is his memory of this event if he thinks I sought to thwart her?"

The dwarf was clearly agitated now and he pulled back in his seat as if trying to distance himself from the king. The dwarf's voice was accusing though his utterance was light. "I know Legolas wished to escort her but you prevented him through injury inflicted by your hand!"

Thranduil shook his head with greater vehemence, again feeling the memories pressing on him while hearing untruths spoken of them. "It was not as you say it."

"He bears the scar still!" the dwarf replied, the volume rising in his speech as his hand balled into a fist which he pushed forcefully into Thranduil's side.

"Do not think to flail me, Dwarf, for I could have you thrown from this horse without utterance of a word! As for my son, there are scars, this is true, but I wonder how it is you think they came to be," Thranduil said evenly, knowing the dwarf would carry on deep invectives if he did not urge a reprieve.

"You wish me to explain Legolas' injuries when it was you who delivered them?" Gimli harrumphed. "Your guilt is clear to me."

"My guilt may be clear to you, but it is not to me.!" Thranduil roared, no longer willing to listen to Gimli's wild words. "I think you have heard the tale wrong. If you deem me guilty without giving me voice to defend myself then I must ask why you did not proclaim your knowledge before your beloved Elf-Queen, Galadriel? Surely something greater could have been done with this knowledge -- which you have yet to describe to me -- whilst still in her graces! Cease your accusations and one-sided truths! I would explain myself if you would only tell me what it is you know!"

Silence followed in the wake of the elf's retort. Thranduil glanced behind and saw his men on alert to his vexing, but he knew the distance between them was great enough that they would not have heard the actual words, only the sound of commotion. With a wave he assured a worried Inirion that all was well. In his heart he assured Arod, letting the Song sing out from there. The horse was quite aware of the mood of its two riders but he settled with Thranduil's quiet soothing.

Telling the tale would be painful and the elf was not eager to go there; it required he relive the experience. _Surely Legolas explained THIS to him_, he thought. In examining the past it would be easier if he might learn what the dwarf knew and then clarify from there. But the dwarf's lack of reply seemed to be a refusal to explain what he knew. _He chooses me guilty without hearing me out. Very well then_, Thranduil thought, _If the dwarf will not give then neither will I_. Instead he focused on what he felt was most important. "There is a solution that might be found for Legolas' Sea-Longing," he continued, returning to the original string of their conversation.

A lengthy pause followed, but then came the words. "Do you truly believe it is fatal to him? This _cuivear_?" Gimli asked. His voice was small, laced with fear -- and pain. Thranduil realized then he had forgotten the fatigue and aches the dwarf must be traveling with. Those agonies certainly would account for a shortened temper. Yet what moved the elf was the great concern foremost in the beckoning question.

"There is only one true cure for _cuivear,_" Thranduil explained with new calm and a small sense of pity, "and that is to sail. But the symptoms can be staved if Legolas would allow me to succor him. And in this it is possible he could maintain for the full of his pledge to Gondor's new king."

"Twice now you have used this word of aid, but I do not understand your meaning. You say I am not capable of delivering it. What then is this 'succor' that only you can give?" Gimli asked.

The elf nodded, pleased that they had come back to a line of converse that he could address competently. "My people would call it _lhaew dambeth_. But it is a treatment rarely used for the Longing, especially in the forest home."

"Why is that?" Gimli asked.

"In the Greenwood realm, _cuivear_ is not a common affliction. We are Wood Elves and so we rarely come into contact with that which might stir the Call. But when it does strike, the one who ails usually needs no succor to give him strength. He does as is guided and takes the Straight Path over the Sundering Seas."

Thranduil felt Gimli nod his understanding and so he continued. "Yet this aid can be had if one has a bondmate who is willing to take it unto himself._ Lhaew dambeth_ we call it. The words means to share the illness."

Again the dwarf nodded and Thranduil felt he was making ground. "It can be used for any ailment really -- the ache of childbirth is probably its most commonly known use -- though it can also allay greater hurts. Injuries, fatigue, heartaches."

"I have heard this. It is the skill elven healers have, like Lord Elrond, is it not?" Gimli asked.

Thranduil frowned, irritated that Elrond's name would be brought into the conversation. Once he had learned of It, he felt the Imladris lord had used his Elven Ring of Power to advantage in forging his valley home. He had no doubt Elrond did the same in enhancing his skills as a healer too. But the dwarf did not need to hear of this animosity to understand Thranduil's point for it was possible Gimli did not even know Elrond held a Ring. Holding discussion of the many Rings was not in his mind. "Yes, that is correct," he simply said. "Somewhat," he amended, "for in this way, through the aid of a bondmate, the pain is lessened. If the hurt is an injury, for example, through _lhaew dambeth_ the bondmate shares the pain while the healer does his part in healing the wound. But with _cuivear_ no healer would dare offer their skills in staving that ache."

"Why would they not?" Gimli asked.

"Because doing so would mean daring to take the illness upon themselves," Thranduil replied.

"Is that not their job?" the dwarf pressed.

"_Cuivear_ is different. It is fatal if one does not heed the Call and sail," Thranduil explained. "And so if a healer incurred the affliction, they too would have to give up their place in this Middle-Earth and sail."

"But you said you would offer him this _lhaew_..." He fumbled as he tried to pronounce the words. "You are not bonded to Legolas and you are certainly no healer..."

Thranduil smiled taking no offense at the words. Mortals were quite unlike elves, he saw, for they did not feel the strength of Iluvatar's gifts. "You are correct. I am no healer. But as his father, Legolas and I have been bonded since before his birth. From the moment he was conceived, in fact. This is not something that is forged or broken like a marriage bond. Legolas is my son; I will know him for all of his days. For though that sense of one another may fade with time, it is there should he want it." He paused, swallowing back the lump in his throat while feeling pride that he might do something to aid his son. "I could help him with his illness if he would let me."

"You would suffer the Sea-Longing too," the dwarf confirmed.

"I would," the king answered, "though its effects would be lessened. I would be a filter for Legolas, and he with me."

"He would not be cured though?" Gimli asked.

"Sailing would be the only real cure for either of us," Thranduil replied. And then he added in confession, "When we find him, it is my intent to offer _lhaew dambeth_."

"But why--? Why did you not give this to your wife, Laeraniel? Did you not have such a bond with her? If you can do this for your son, why did you not offer such when she was overcome by the sea-longing?"

Affronted, Thranduil asked, "Do you think I did not?"

"You let her languish in her illness," Gimli answered though his statement seemed almost a question. "And as I understand it, she died from it."

Thranduil felt a knot rise in his throat. "Aye, she did die," he admitted. "But it was not _cuivear_ that took her in the end. It was heartache." The memories were stirring and he could feel them pressing on his resolve. Again, he thought about donning the Ring to protect himself from them, but he would not be parted from his sense of his son.

"Heartache?" Gimli asked.

"That is what the healers said in the end," Thranduil confirmed, then laughed humorlessly. "Heartache is another affliction healers dare not succor."

"But you said in a marriage bond this is something you could aid through _lhaew dambeth_. 'Injuries, fatigue, heartaches,' were your words.

Thranduil nodded, again dipping his head at the overwhelming pain of this memory. "And I would have." He gazed up, watching the unmarked road ahead of them. "I indeed tried. I would not have her suffer _cuivear_ or any other affliction. But it was Laeraniel who refused me." He found it difficult to breathe. Dare he speak it? "She... she severed our bond before I could proceed with _lhaew dambeth_."

He had to stop then, for the memory was too thick. He could remember her weak cries, her muzzy response. She seemed outside of herself when he spoke to her from her sickbed, her eyes lost, her brow furrowed as if in pain, as if she spoke from a state of dreams, nightmares.

"_Nay... I will refuse you my heart."_

"_Laeraniel, my love! You must let me help. Is this not what our bond is for?"_

"_I will not have it. My heart lives elsewhere. Leave me... leave me."_

The dwarf spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "Is that possible? For an elf? I thought a marriage bond was meant to last forever."

"It is meant to," Thranduil could only confirm, choking on the words.

"But why would she do such if you could have helped her?" Gimli asked.

Thranduil dared not say what he felt might be the real truth of the matter for it crushed him._ My heart lives elsewhere, _she had said. It would be easy to interpret her words to mean she no longer recognized her love for him. This confused him greatly and forced him to wonder if he was that removed from her that she could not sense his place in her heart. He had removed his Ring then, thinking It perhaps responsible, but it did no good. She could not feel him. In the end he chose to believe she was driven out of her mind by her illness. He had never learned a truth to otherwise disprove this notion for she spoke sense no more to any thereafter.

Still, when he tried to force his succor upon her in the days after, she pushed him away, her eyes wild, fighting him fiercely, even from her deathbed. She severed the bond then, snarling hate-filled curses whenever he neared her. He could feel their separation the instant if came, and with it she effectively silenced his ability to reach into her soul. That slicing of her spirit -- the healers said it was what pushed her into the open arms of death-- had nearly taken him too. He collapsed at the severing. Yet when revived all he could do was silently watch as Laeraniel faded.

But in answer to the dwarf, he had another reply. "She sacrificed herself for the sake of our realm." True or not, he could not say, but it made her death far nobler than it might be were others to realize she simply no longer loved him and wished her own end. "She felt it better I rule than succumb to Sea-Longing like her."

Gimli shifted uneasily behind the elf, but Thranduil did not try to read him. The memories, though long-passed, still felt fresh to him, a wound that would not scar over. He did not think he would ever heal from it.

"Did Legolas know any of this?" the dwarf asked after a long silence.

Thranduil felt the knot in his throat again as his grief throbbed anew. He could not speak and was forced to shake his head in reply though there was more he would answer.

"You did not tell him these things when he offered to take her away?" Gimli asked, his voice incredulous.

"I do not think he heard my words, Master Dwarf," Thranduil answered woodenly. "He was suffering too. He wanted only to find remedy when there was none to be had."

"Legolas could have eased her misery though, lightened the burden of the Sea-Longing for her, could he have not?" Gimli asked.

The elf sighed. "Legolas does not understand soul bonds. I do not think he realizes they exist or knows he could have reached out to Laeraniel to aid her. I do not think he knows this any more than he knows he can reach out to me now for succor," Thranduil said heavily. Whether right or wrong, these were truths, and he had kept them from his son so that Legolas at least would live.

"He could have helped her though," Gimli nearly whispered.

"Had he done so he would have succumbed to _cuivear_ himself, and before he'd even achieved his maturity. Would you wish that heartache upon him? Had I allowed it you would have never known him -- he would have sailed centuries ago," Thranduil replied. The arguments were not new to his mind.

"But she would be alive," the dwarf countered.

Of course Thranduil knew this. How often had he thought these very ideas? He shook his head, pushing the argument away. It did no good now to consider choices made in the past. Instead he tried to explain as best he could. "I could not bear to lose Legolas too. The grief I suffered was already dire. To lose him as well-- I cannot attest to the survival of the Greenwood realm should it have come to that. I would have perished most surely if I had lost him." But in his grief, the words sounded weak even to Thranduil's ears.

"So you chose to stab him to show this great affection," the dwarf's voice came hard with the accusation. The words struck like a blow.

Thranduil bowed under the weight of the pain, but then rallied his strength, not ready to admit complete blame for what had happened next. Could he tell the dwarf that when Legolas had approached him he had been out of his mind with his own misery? Could he say he could barely remember the incident, so great was the hurt he had been suffering at that moment? Could he say that his intent was not to hurt Legolas but himself?

"You were not there, you do not know what occurred," he weakly replied. It was a pale response given the vivid agony in his heart.

"I have heard what happened," the dwarf accused.

The king feebly shook his head. "Not clearly, I think. The injury was an accident."

"Clearly heard or not, his scar evidences the action! What say you to your part?"

The dwarf seemed emboldened by his rage whereas Thranduil felt he had little in him to fight. Still, Thranduil swallowed, realizing he was trying to escape this interrogation. The dwarf was not going to relinquish to one sentence replies. Painful as it was, he must explain. "I told Legolas to leave me; it was not the right time for us to speak. I could not think. I thought I was alone."

Raging, the dwarf seemed not to hear him. "You say nothing! You struck him; you nearly killed him!"

"I was barely aware of myself, Dwarf, let alone him," Thranduil countered. And then he took a breath so that he might calm himself. Still his voice came with a raggedy sound, a sob. "Can you not understand? I was nearly as wounded as Laeraniel! I was barely alive, so shattered was my heart. The pain -- ai!," Thranduil's hand came to his heart in remembrance of his agony.

The dwarf was not forestalled. "A knife pierced his leg!"

"Aye! And it was my hand that directed it! But Legolas was not the target I sought!"

There, it was now said.

Gimli did not seem to grasp his meaning. "If not Legolas, then ...?" And then he paused.

In the interim silence the dwarf seemed to picture the scene. "You? You sought your own life? And before the eyes of your son?" Gimli retorted. "What father would do such a thing?"

"I did not think he was there to witness my end. He came upon me unsuspecting. And then fought me for the knife."

"That was not how it was told me!" Gimli replied, not conceding.

"Then I wonder by what means you were told!" Thranduil shouted, the suddenness of his ire surprising even him. "I will grant you that our argument before was heated. I had not meant it to go so far! But he said he would leave, and I knew what I would do. He had to stay, to rule in my stead."

"Elves do not commit suicide," the dwarf argued.

Thranduil scoffed, nearly laughing at the ludicrous reply. "What drivel is that? What do you think it is to fade? In my soul, Laeraniel was already dead. I was dying too. I only needed the knife to complete the act."

The dwarf paused as if to consider this. And then he said, "That does not make it right."

"Of course it was not right!" Thranduil truly felt sick with the grief he was experiencing. He gulped on air as they rode, and then the elf repeated in a voice much softer, "Of course it was not. I saw the wrong after, but at the moment I wanted peace and an end to my agony. I had not meant Legolas to be involved. That is all I can say in my defense. But actions cannot be reversed, Dwarf. How I wish that they could be! There are many things I would do differently."

Gimli seemed to absorb what he had learned. Another moment's silence came. The gentle gait of the horse rocked Thranduil in his seat, but his heart felt the ache as if freshly made and there was no soothing his raw nerves.

A moment later it became clear the dwarf was not done with him. Breaking the silence, Gimli said in a voice made even and yet stilled filled with vexation, "You would do things differently, you say. I assume that includes accepting the Ring when It was offered to you?"

A part of Thranduil admired the vigor of the dwarf's attack. Indeed, Gimli was a mighty foe. Thranduil felt beaten. His crimes against his son he was prepared to answer. Defending his use of the Ring though, that he had no heart for.

He sighed and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he pled, "I know what you would say, but the Ring has no bearing in this. I was not wearing It when the accident occurred, so please do not take that side of the argument."

But Gimli would not be appeased. "Nay, I will not. I deem you have learned nothing. You may have removed It on the day you stabbed Legolas, and you wear It not today, but that does not mean It does not have effect. I think -- nay, I KNOW it wields power over thought and demeanor. I have only been in Its presence for short time, but I feel It. Surely you sensed It then and how It would have affected your actions."

"You _feel_ It? Even when I do not wear It?" Thranduil asked, ignoring the second part of Gimli's statement. He turned to glance back at the dwarf. None of his people had ever _felt_ It. Even Galadriel, a Ringbearer herself, had not noticed Its presence when he wore It, let alone when he did not!

Gimli scowled, meeting his eyes. "Of course I feel It. How can I not? It is there about your body somewhere -- in a pocket perhaps." His eyes then drew to Thranduil's side where a hidden pocket indeed did house the Ring.

Thranduil gasped, turning again in his seat. He realized then just how great the Ring's call to a Dwarf would be. And if It was that great, perhaps It had been made with greater power than he, an elf, could wield. "I had never thought--" he began, but the dwarf cut him off.

"Why you still keep It near is not clear to me. I have been watching you, and though the discord in you appears gone, you still are much as you were when we last met and you _were_ wearing It."

Thranduil straightened in his seat, disagreeing with the words being said. He was _not _the same elf without the Ring. "I am sure you cannot understand what it is to possess such a thing," he answered defensively. He knew it had been a foolish statement as soon as the words passed his lips.

The dwarf launched upon his mistake without hesitation. "I am sure _you_ forget I journeyed on the Ringquest. I _know_ what it is to feel the lure of such a trinket. That experience gives me knowledge enough to say It...serves... no... good." The last words were enunciated for greater effect.

"Perhaps It does!" Thranduil countered, no longer speaking his conscious but his pride. He did not need to hear he had been taken a fool. He grasped at the only defensive thought he had remaining in his arsenal. He was not ready yet to think Annatar the same as the Dark Lord. He remembered again Annatar's explanation, that Sauron falsely appeared as him; Thranduil had long accepted and adhered to that fact. He would believe his friend true. "Perhaps It was given to me so that I might do something good!"

Gimli launched upon that comment derisively, "An elf with a Dwarf Ring? I think not."

But Thranduil would not hear such words. "How do you know with certainty It is something of Sauron?"

"Its very existence is proof of that!" Gimli shouted. "What happened to Legolas, to your wife, there is your proof!"

Stubbornly Thranduil refused. All these years of acting upon It and the strength It drew to him made him feel incapable of outright confessing a mistake. "I am not so convinced," he replied.

The dwarf choked on that answer. "Sauron rules that Ring!" he cried angrily.

"I do not know if that is true," the elf countered.

"You do not -- ?! Are you mad? How can you not feel Sauron's influence upon that _thing_?" Thranduil could feel Gimli squirming behind him and wondered for a moment if the dwarf was trying to jump from the back of the horse. But then he realized it was Gimli trying to push the king away. "Get off! Get off! Creature of the dark, I cannot tolerate your proximity! Get off this beast now before I take my dagger to your heart!"

Thranduil could hear the vehemence in the words and chose not to argue them. Without questioning he easily vaulted Arod before the horse had even stilled. Behind him, he knew his guard had witnessed the move and were running to catch up, but he halted them with a single raised hand. He was not ready to take in the company of others. He wished privacy yet.

Satisfied that they were yet alone, he gazed at the dwarf. Gimli would not meet his eye, and with his short breaths and clenched teeth, it was clear the dwarf was furious. The king cocked his head trying to determine what best he might say, his own anger and hurt not yet deterred. He weighed his thoughts in this. He had not even wanted to speak to the dwarf at first, but Gimli had propelled their conversation forward and now that they were involved, Thranduil felt compelled to explain himself. Yet he felt strangely cowed by this small creature's ire. Turning his eyes away so that neither was looking at one another, Thranduil said, "I am no creature of the Dark Lord."

"Your actions are vile! I will not speak to you!" Gimli spat.

"You began this, Dwarf! Let us finish!" Thranduil raged in reply.

But the stout warrior would not hear him. He urged the horse forward with a graceless thrust of his legs. "You are no better than one of the Nazgul Kings! Be gone with you! I will tolerate you no more!" The horse cantered on leaving Thranduil alone and he could only contemplate how, over these many long centuries, he had been made a fool.

**TBC**

_Cuivear_ - this is a word I made up long ago when I wrote "Cry of the Gull" and "Torn Between Two Worlds." It is the elven name I give for the illness that befalls an elf overcome by sea-longing. Literally it means "sea awakening."

_Dínpeth _- Another word combo of my own contrivance, it means "Quiet word" though I interpret that as "silent name."

_Lhaew dambeth_ - Clearly I am making up the composition of these terms for the sake of the story though in all cases the words are Sindarin in make. Literally it means "illness answering."


	38. Reborn

**Dark Forest**  
_**By Anarithilien**_

_**Part II: In Realms Beyond  
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Reborn**_

Galadriel closed her eyes, allowing her other senses to claim her perceptions of the world. There was something wrong, a darkness ahead. She felt a beseeching call, a soul lost and in need of salvation. Yet for this she was not sure it was hers to do the saving. Still, destiny called to them... to her...

"We are needed," she said to Celeborn as he handed her the waterskin, wet from its fresh filling. She packed the sac filled with water from the Nimrodel into her belongings before turning to see her husband mounting his steed and sidling up to her mare. They were leaving with a contingent of twenty saddled warriors just hours after Thranduil, but this was to their plan as it had been since realizing the king and dwarf would set out on their own. Thranduil felt so little trust for them -- for her -- and in his frustration and haste, he had denied their aid as it had been given. Like a petulant child, he acted now alone, assuming no help would be given to him should he have asked for it. Thranduil thought he sought only his son, but Galadriel perceived a greater mission. And so they set out in rescue. It was as it must be.

"What of the _onodrim_? Fangorn?" Celeborn asked, breaking into her thoughts.

She nodded, her eyes alighting to the sky. "The messengers have been sent," she said, her mind recalling the hawk's pledge to rouse the Ent from Orthanc. "Both Fangorn and Lendglad have been informed. They will meet us upon our arrival."

From her mount, she glanced down at Haldir as he approached. Without her asking, he reported his part in Thranduil's leave, "I ensured that the king and Gimli would ride together. They are both safer this way. All the others march." Then he narrowed his eyes, gazing up at her with his question. Familiarly he asked, for after all these years in service, she was friendly with all the guardsmen and encouraged their converse, "What is it you see ahead?"

She smiled at him, for Haldir was a gifted warrior with a sharp mind and deep concerns; he would be prepared for all eventualities if he could. In turn, she focused on answering his query. She noted the moistness of the Nimrodel water still upon her fingers. She had not brushed the droplets from her hands, and just that touch alone was enough to avail her some insight.

Her vision clouded as she tried to focus ahead. She saw a blaze of knives, scimitars, while orcish screams rent in her ears.

"You need not fear for us," she said in answer, for she knew this true. "It is for our friends that we now travel. The danger is for them."

Haldir's eyes widened, thinking perhaps he had done some wrong. "Should I have kept them here? I did not think it right to impede their path when they so plainly meant to travel."

She smiled at her guardsmen, assuring him with her gaze. "Nay, it would have done little good had you. Where Thranduil and our dwarf-friend travel now is part of a destiny greater than any we might deter," she said. "It is our duty now to play our part in their rescue."

A movement from Celeborn caught her eye. "You have no insight yet into what that might be?'

"Nay," she shook her head. "I only know it is time we pay our part into restoring what has become a ruinous fortune. Past deeds return, my love, and I fear we must pay for our part in them. Prepare yourself. We are called upon to make amends. It is time."

"Then may our journey be straight and uneventful until such time comes," he whispered, words meant for both her ears and that of the Valar than those around them. And then he continued in a broader voice so that all the company might hear, "Let us proceed."

As the riders set forth in their march, Galadriel followed at her husband's side. With the others about her unseeing of her mood, she allowed the despair she truly felt settle into her heart and mind. Unease lay ahead, and despite Celeborn's quiet prayer, she did not think their journey would go with ease. She tried to prepare herself for their ill fate. She had said the danger was to Thranduil and Gimli, but truly the past played a part in events laid for them as well. She would be called upon to offer confession and healing, this she knew. Utmost, death would be a herald in this procession. And though their purpose was one she could not foresee, she knew it lay on the plains ahead, and in the forest of Fangorn. Pain would accompany whatever fate laid into their plans.

xxxxxxxxx

Thranduil felt there was no improving the situation should he chase after the dwarf. And so he put his head down and continued his forward march, his men following from their position.

The dwarf stayed at the lead and though it was clear he had little control of the horse's actions, Thranduil thought it best not to press his own authority over the animal. Arod was a clever horse and once he relaxed into his rider he would lead without the dwarf's command. The animal had sense enough to need no real direction, seeming to understand their mission. He loved Legolas too, it seemed, and knew they sought him out.

Thranduil marched and tried not to think of what he might have said differently. Something within him fought the dwarf's accusations. In his heart he knew Gimli was right but he also felt he could not truly change his reply for his statement had been true as well. In his mind the Ring _did_ do good. He had led his people well through these years of war and strife because the Ring had given him the strength to do so. He had found ways to provide food, commerce, and to enrich the troves of his kingdom in order to keep his folk housed and secure, and it was the Ring that had given him the wisdom to do these things as well. Despite the descending darkness and his son's penchant for recklessness, he had kept Legolas safe and alive through all the years of his young adulthood, showing him what it was to lead, training him to fight. Here too it was the Ring that had given him the insight to do this. It could be used for good; there was evidence to prove it.

True, while he wore It Thranduil could find himself far more stubborn, wanting, and dogged in his refusals. But he had learned these things some long years ago and he Knew he must be careful in gauging his use of the Ring. When he noticed Its ill effects he refused his Passion; it was that simple. No dwarf need tell him this.

Not that the power that emanated from It wasn't enticing. Whether he wore It for a long spell or short it felt good to do so. And that was why he chose to wear It more than any other reason he could contrive. Just to put It on gave him the assurance he needed to feel he was doing right. He lived for that sense of satisfaction.

"Do you not hear the Dark Lord's voice guiding your actions?"

Thranduil started, glancing up, suprised to find the dwarf riding at his side again. Gimli had stilled Arod until the elf might catch up, or so it seemed. Yet Thranduil had been so trapped in his own thoughts he had not noticed. The words acted as the deep voice of his conscience.

The dwarf repeated his question as he urged the horse forward again. "Did you not hear Sauron's voice when you wore the Ring?"

"I did not," Thranduil admitted though in his heart he knew that this truly was all he had as an excuse; he had not known It was a Ring of evil. Despite his desire to always keep It near, he had told himself that it was want that had always guided him, not influence by the Ring. Further, he had not always worn It during the event of his wrongdoings. Still he had to admit that It had played a role in the decisions he made leading to those acts. He thought again of the woman who had delivered the Ring to him. Would he have fallen to the act of seduction had the Ring not been present?

Gimli harrumphed at his answer, drawing him back to the query. The dwarf was clearly dissatisfied with his answer. "What is it then that makes you wear It?" he asked, but this time it was not so much anger that marked his question as disappointment.

Thranduil considered the query. Were it easy to speak, he would not have hesitated. He nodded, appreciating what the dwarf was asking, but he had no simple reply. Simply he said, "I know what you ask and why you do so. I would do nothing to hurt Legolas."

The brusque laugh that followed stood testimony to the dwarf's argument. "And yet you have hurt him, have you not? For Legolas' behalf I say you have wasted all excuses. Sauron gave the Ring to you and _you_ wear It still!"

"Annatar was the one who had It delivered to me," Thranduil replied stubbornly.

The dwarf's face went red as he fumed. "Have you not heard? Sauron and Annatar are one and the same! The Ring is evidence enough of the evil that birthed It."

Thranduil sighed, drawing his feelings inward rather than allowing them to flow freely. "I do not need to fabricate an excuse. I would say merely that the dwarf lords of old wore their Rings with less knowledge for what They could muster than I might do. I have control."

A mirthless chuckle passed the lips of the dwarf as he responded. "I hold the same contempt for those of my own kind and their choice to use their Rings. My ire has nothing to do with your race, and everything to do with your wisdom."

"Those of my race don Rings as well," Thranduil reminded. "If you are to question me for my choice you might wish to question Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel as well."

Gimli shifted in his seat, growling into his beard, but he quickly replied, "Yet they do not conspire with the Dark Lord."

Now it was Thranduil's turn to deliver a humorless laugh. "Nor do I. Sauron is dead or so I have been told."

Again the dwarf cast narrowed eyes on the king, and he said with venomous calm, "You did though."

The elf shivered slightly. Even in his weakened state, this dwarf was a challenging adversary. "Nay," Thranduil said, meeting Gimli's dark gaze. "I never felt the presence of Sauron nor would I have used It if I suspected He had a part in the Ring."

Gimli's jaw fell open as he listened to the response, and he answered with dark words. "What more do you need to piece the puzzle together so you might see the villainy the Ring wreaked. Auch, if only you knew the harm you did! Legolas was a shambles! It was the reason we went on this mad folly to begin with!"

Thranduil screwed his brow in confusion. "You mean into the Forest of Fangorn? I thought you had said you went searching for dwarf bones, those of Narvi." Earlier he had not thought his son's quest truly sound of mind, but he had not really questioned it either. He and Gimli could travel to Fangorn for any reason they might contrive.

But the dwarf seemed to feel vehement reasoning needed to be announced. "Would you have rather I spoke the truth before Celeborn and Galadriel and said that we went searching for someone who would tell Legolas about you?"

"About me?" Thranduil asked.

"Your son knows so little of you, Lord Elf. When mention of your name came to him in that dream, he readily sought more. He was... is... trying to put his heart right. He wants to forgive you and he does this by seeking knowledge of your life, information about your companions, and history's portrayal of you. He knows he cannot judge you directly, for his own experience has been clouded. Through the assessment others might give though, he thinks he will discover who you are and will find outward forgiveness. By my oath on the Arkenstone I cannot imagine why that would be important to him but he wanted... wants... it greatly."

Thranduil paused, digesting this piece of news. After a moment he whispered, "He tries to forgive?"

"He certainly could not put his reasons to words -- they confused him as much as they did me, at first," the dwarf grumbled, "and he was verily reluctant to tell me any of his recollections. Yet do not think he did not want to speak. It was the pain of these memories that kept them hidden."

Thranduil sensed a darker truth in this and he felt sudden, protective rage. "You made him speak?"

Gimli stiffened at the affront. "Nay, I delved, but I did not defile. He opened his thoughts to me, and once unveiled I could see into his heart." The dwarf turned to the king then and Thranduil felt compelled to meet Gimli's stern gaze. "He is lost, Thranduil! He is in misery because he knows not where to go! Every purpose, every occupation he might have had you pushed away from him. He has nothing of Mirkwood left in him -- anything that might have seemed like a home to him is now lost. Lo, but that is an ache to him, for he wants to love even though his heart has been taken by the sea. Still he yearns to remain, to serve where he can, to love those that love him in equal kind! If not for the friends he has made, he would flee now the Undying Lands. You have destroyed every reason he might want to stay otherwise!"

Thranduil began to speak but the dwarf did not give him the opportunity to reply. Gimli pointed to the hidden pocket where Thranduil kept the Ring. "That thing is to blame. It has tainted your actions and made you vile. I would have thought you might know that not one of the Dwarf Rings was wrought with good intention."

But having thought on it, Thranduil would dispute that argument. He spoke, "If I told you I was trying to protect him, you would not believe me. But if indeed you know the history of the Rings, you know the Elf Rings were forged for goodness," he began.

"You do not wear an Elf Ring," Gimli retorted.

"Perhaps I thought I did!" Thranduil argued.

"Did Sauron tell you it was an Elf Ring?" the dwarf asked.

Those words sparked a fierce anger for they were delivered like a weapon, intended to do harm. "_Annatar_ had promised me a Ring when Galadriel had--" He stopped mid-sentence, deciding denigrating Galadriel's repute would not endear his tale to the dwarf. He took a breath then resumed. "He knew my heart was hurt by the last of my experiences in Hollin. He had told me then that a Ring of his crafting would be mine some day. I waited some seventeen hundred years, but a Ring finally did come to me," Thranduil began.

The dwarf chortled incredulously. "And the fact that a mortal had lived some seventeen hundred years did not give you a clue that there was some devilry at play?"

"Annatar did not deliver the gift. It came through an ancestor, one who knew of our friendship," Thranduil dismissed.

"Yes, I see the likelihood of that," the dwarf replied in words laced with sarcasm.

"It matters not what you think, Dwarf! The Ring was a gift to me and I believed It came as Annatar intended. We lived in relative peace then, and though war loomed in the distance, it was only our allegiance to Gil-Galad that brought us into _that_ fray. Greenwood was a peaceful place and I had no reason to believe Annatar had meant ill for me," Thranduil argued.

"The destruction of Hollin meant nothing, I suppose," Gimli murmured.

"My belief in Annatar is yet another story. Which do you want?" the elf snapped.

"It seems to me that your belief played into your reasons for taking and using that Ring. You knew what It was even if you could not acknowledge It as a Ring for another race. Given what you did to Legolas, could you have not discerned the evil in It?" the dwarf growled in his askance.

"Nay, you miss my point," Thranduil frowned in frustration. "Right and wrong can be controlled. Right and wrong -- Galadriel is not pure of heart, even with her Ring. She controls the power she wields just as I discern correct and incorrect actions and use my power to wield them."

"You are on the wrong side of this argument, Elf! I dare you to tell me the crimes you committed against Legolas were done for the right!"

"They were meant to be for the good!"

"If that is so, your perspective is skewed wretchedly and I will do everything in my power to see you destroyed," the dwarf said, his response laden with the darkness of his threat.

"I was protecting him," Thranduil protested.

"By setting another to seduce him?! To rob him of his virtue?!"

"The alternative was death!" the elf roared.

"How so?"

Thranduil knew he must respond, even if his answer would be unappreciated. "I had no choice. I knew with utmost certainty that if Legolas did not draw back -- if he took a position as a leader in the field as he was destined to do -- he would be killed by Sauron's forces." He paused. Gimli was staring at him, apparently waiting for more. He continued to explain. "No one told me this. There was no voice. I just knew. I could sense that Legolas was going to leave the safety of the palace, perhaps not that day, but soon. He was going to return to the fields as their lead command. And in doing that he was going to expose himself. He had to be halted. But he was unaware. He kept pressing for more might, but Sauron's forces only toyed with him. The Necromancer's counter charge would destroy that force."

The dwarf turned to stare at him. With accusation in his voice, he said, "You _sensed_ this?"

"I knew it."

"No one spoke it to you?"

"Nay."

"Your senses then..." Gimli drawled. "Perhaps this is what prevented you from giving Legolas the resources he sought when he first approached you on an attack strategy?"

"He did tell you much," Thranduil affirmed but then resigned himself to the question. "Nay, it would have done no good! Sauron's dark forces merely lay in wait."

The horse side-stepped as Gimli threw his hands up in exasperation. Noticing the horse's movement, he turned forward in his seat. "Let me venture in my beliefs that you wore the Ring when this premonition came to you? And as a result of your actions -- that _seduction_," he said the word as if it had a bad taste, "-- forced Legolas away to do exactly what you did not want him to do."

"I misjudged--" Thranduil began.

Gimli interrupted, "He survived his part as their leader!"

"Perhaps the Necromancer--" Thranduil tried to argue again.

"Enough!" the dwarf spouted. "Has it never occurred to you that Sauron manipulated you, threatening Legolas' life as a means of controlling you to do exactly what he wanted? The Dark Lord knew your heart and so He leveled a knife at it," Gimli countered. "If so, giving Legolas the resources he asked for might have been the thing to defeat the forces battling in the southern woods. O but Legolas was right to be frustrated! His ideas were correct! But you -- held under the sway of that _Ring_ -- thwarted any means he might have had of destroying the Mirkwood menace!"

A similar cry, long past, echoed in his head.

_Thranduil, what have you done? You doom us!_

"No!" Thranduil cried, shaking his head in answer both to the dwarf and the voice of his past. He could not counter Gimli's charge feeling weak as he acknowledged, at least to himself, that Gimli might be right.

Gimli cursed beneath his breath, then through grit teeth said, "Annatar was deceptive. He was evil. Long has he been called so by many."

Thranduil knew he must disclaim this. He could feel tears pulling at his eyes, but he would not cry. By sheer will he choked out an answer in a voice that was steely in its hardness. "Annatar did many things that others might claim ill, but proof of his deception was never made to me." And is so saying, he became convinced himself, remembering as he spoke the truth of the moment as he had lived it. Beyond the manipulation it might be easy to see, but Thranduil had lived a different reality.

"Over and over in my time with him he offered me kindness and good counsel. You have history as your basis; I have personal experience for mine. I lived a truth you will never know and though I can see I might have been manipulated -- perhaps by him, or perhaps by others with intent of evil, I do not know-- Annatar was my friend. And you speaking now, telling me he was evil, is the equal to a proclamation on my part that Gondor's new king is evil. For some that indeed may be true, and history may paint it so in the end, but you know him through the light of your friendship. You know your comrade to be good. I... I see Annatar the same." Thranduil paused, watching to see if his plea was being heard.

The dwarf opened his mouth as if to speak, but Thranduil could see Gimli's furrowed brow spoke no favor. He pulled out the Ring then, brandishing It openly so the dwarf might see It though he did not put It on. His voice came lower still, almost as a whisper. "In truth I do not know what to believe, Master Dwarf. You tell me that this is a Dwarf Ring, yet I did not know it as such until only two days ago. I thought I had one of the Three for those bearers of Rings are a secret lot and none proclaim themselves openly. There was no reason for me not to think it so. Yet thinking It one of the Three, I allowed this Ring to strengthen me, to give me foresight, to help me protect my realm. I thought it was to aid me! I thought that was the reason I was to have It, one last gift from my friend. You think not, but in his living life Annatar always guided me well, showed me kindness. He came to me as a Man and I felt nothing of evil in him. Nothing! So I used It. And why would I not if I thought It was wrought for good and that my friend was truly kind?"

He felt the tears again forming in his eyes though he could not explain their reason. "Foremost," he continued, "it has been my intent to guard my people... to guard my son! I kept him in my court to protect him. And then I thought if he wed it would compel him to stay near, to keep to his heart."

"You manipulated him," Gimli accused.

Thranduil sighed and nodded his head, his wariness growing greater. "Aye. I manipulated him, aye, this is true; but I foresaw a bond between Legolas and the girl that he did not. I trusted that foresight. I thought it a skill of the Ring. Legolas resisted, and perhaps he was right in the end that he did so, but at the time I thought I was doing something for his well-being, his safety. Ultimately -- always! -- I fought the darkness as best I could and I used the Ring to bring good. _That_ was my goal."

A long moment passed. And then the dwarf spoke in an equally icy voice, "You cannot see what is happening about you then, can you? You act compulsively and without consideration of the effect you create in so doing. You claim a good heart yet your thoughts are centered only on the assurance this Ring brings you."

"Nay, you are wrong, for my heart does ache, Dwarf!" Thranduil proclaimed. The tears were now stinging his eyes, spilling. His chest truly felt as if it were being crushed and he knew only he must speak. "It aches for the hurt done by it, to it. But I do not blame the Ring for this nor do I blame Annatar. The Ring bolsters me, just as Annatar did."

"And should you realize Annatar's evil?"

"I would beg Mandos to deliver me." Thranduil answered.

"Was that not what you were doing just before you stabbed Legolas with the knife?"

Thranduil drew in his breath as if he had been punched.

Gimli continued, launching into his verbal attack without mercy. "You are deceived by It! It prays upon your doubts and lets you feel they are removed! It throws you into darkness, like some orc groveling in the dirt, cowed by evil. No wisdom does It grant you! No fair knowledge is honed into the hearts and minds of those you maneuver. The aftermath of the harm you cause is what you should be looking to amend. You waste your time by proclaiming your loyalty to a faithless friend long past. You have hurt Legolas. Fix that!"

Thranduil felt crushed by the words. Gimli shook his head in disgust. "O, fair king, you are blind. Admit you were manipulated. Start there. And then toss It aside! Foresake Its place in your heart and put Legolas there."

And then Arod murmured distress as if moved by the words. But it seemed it was not the dwarf's start that stirred him. Suddenly the ground around them started to give way. It was shuddering, trembling and the grasses started to sway. The horse suddenly reared, crying out as Thranduil's eyes widened. Brown foliage stirred, and gaping holes opened. Suddenly it was clear the turf had been laying loose upon the ground, carpeting the earth, concealing something that now was emerging from that fertile bed.

Creatures sprang from the ground. Bleary-eyed. Angry. They were covered in mud, and were dark, foul, an opposing force to the blazing sun.

And Thranduil stumbled back. _Orcs! _he thought as panic suddenly ratcheted his heart.

They shrieked loudly then, a war cry, and the stench of them... why had he not smelled them? He should have sensed them! But the earth masked them. That was why.

Their movements were synchronized, and as he noted this he realized they had been laying in wait.

But he could not think more. Instinct took over. He must fight. He drew his long knife as the first of many approached. In an instant a hand was severed from a body and black blood covered his weapon. Another leapt then and his blade found the soft belly, slicing a clean line through the creature's organs. Behind him he could feel Arod's hooves pounding the ground as the horse fought too. Beyond that he could hear Gimli cursing a dwarvish abuse, the cry answered by an orc howling in pain.

Yet he knew it was to no avail. They were greatly outnumbered. Surrounded on all sides. And where was his company? He ventured a glance behind him and saw his own people being accosted by a like group of monsters. No elf among them was free of battle.

His attention was drawn back as he felt hands suddenly upon him, pulling at him, nearly causing him to drop the Ring, which he blankly realized was still in his hand.

He spun, slashing with his knife, drawing black blood to splash across the glittering glow of the tall grasses.

From the corner of his eye he could see the dwarf being dragged from Arod's back while the horse screamed out his fury.

And then a blow from behind dropped him to his knees and the Ring flew from his hand. His eyes followed as the amber jewel spiraled through the air. But It was instantly lost to his sight, blending with the infinite gold of the surrounding field.

Someone struck him. He felt pain. He was twisted, pummeled with a hard fist. And then there were hands grabbing at him and trying to pull his knife away, fighting to flatten him to the ground.

He struck out with his angry blade. He scored flesh and the orcs, many he could see, jumped back, howls rent for the injuries.

He pushed up to his feet again, but still he was not freed. Another pounced and he was at the heart of a melee. He was again being pushed, dragged down to the earth, as if he were to be buried there. He was kicked. Struck. He saw weapons fly and almost as if detached from it all, he delivered strikes of his own.

But he cried out as the point of a knife punctured him at the shoulder. He felt his knees falter, but he shoved off regardless, freeing himself from the weapon and the surrounding fighters in his movement, and drawing blood of his own with the upswing. Yet a clubbed arm swung. He saw it come from the corner of his eye, and he had no time to dodge it fully. It caught him and propelled him. He felt the earth catch him, his teeth rattled in his mouth as he collided to the ground. Almost simultaneously a heavy boot crushed his ribs. He choked on his scream.

He rolled to his belly as red filled his vision. Bile burned his throat and he felt he might be ill. Dazed by his pain, he rolled again. He still had his knife and in his momentum he flailed again at his attackers. But his movements were clumsy. He could taste mud in his mouth but he was successful in making his attackers back away. Still they lunged, and distantly he thought of his circumstance, wondering if this was to be his end. Nothing was visible to him. He could hear orc cries, and his body being tumbled and dragged. Swift pain made him kick and cry.

Through the fire of hard agony there was a flurry of commotion, trembling earth, more horses, loud cries from fair voices, and then the orcs surrounding him backed away. Still clinging to his knife, mindful of his hurts, he used the moment to crawl away from the assault.

But he was stopped, flipped to his back, and two grey eyes stared down at him.

_Grey eyes. _

_Grey eyes belonging to an orc,_ he thought.

He knew he had never come upon a grey-eyed orc before this moment. He struck out in his attempt to flee, slicing through the orc's leather vest and reaching flesh. The orc fell back, screaming its misery and that's when Thranduil realized there was something even more odd about this orc than just its grey eyes. It was a female. He could see her breasts. Bowing over her belly, she cried out her hurt as she began to back away toward one of the holes of the earth.

Thranduil pursued her, crawling after her, thinking of the rarity of finding a female and wishing to drag her into the light, to destroy her so she could create no more of these foul marauders. But the thought was quickly tossed aside in the heat of battle. The rattle of a crack across the side of his head stunned him and he found himself dropping again to the ground. Distantly he heard himself cry out, knowing he felt pain. But it was also so far away and everything was moving in slow motion.

He heard the sound of the horses again. Arod crying. A fierce rumble made the ground move and he wondered if he was the cause of this. But no, he remembered, he had lost the Ring. This was not his doing.

More voices sounded over the din of his ringing ears. And stirring enough to glance over to his side, he saw the she-orc raise her head. She too had been dropped by a blow. A knife had opened a gaping wound to her chest and he could see the black life blood pouring out of her body.

He felt compelled to get near, to witness her end, thinking it would be the end of her foul history, and that of a line of orcs that would follow her. Her death was a beginning made for the good.

He crawled to her side and looked into her eyes as they drifted, glad to watch her end. Breath was still rattling in her chest though her spirit was fleeing. He could see her diminish. She groaned and his eyes strayed to her hands as they fumbled at her belly. He could see her then writhe weakly, something other than the wound driving her as she rolled to her back. But then she was looking at him again, as if he she recognized him. And then she spoke. And as she did, he realized why the color of her eyes startled him. They were the color of elf eyes.

Sympathy suddenly compelled him. _An elf! How foul! How wrong!_ But he knew it to be true. He felt sick for his knowledge.

He reached a hand to her then in an effort to offer aid. She took it weakly, the claws of her fingers digging into his flesh. But he too was waning, losing his war to this world, and he barely felt her touch, barely heard her last words.

She sobbed with the last stab of pain, a grimace turning her lips upward into a grim smile. And then she died, her eyes fixing on something above, softening into an unfocused stare. And almost, almost, he could recognize her elven face as that morbid grin slackened to become something akin to an expression of hope and happiness.

But then his fight seemed to be lost, and consciousness flitted away. The earth seemed to swallow him up then and he thought perhaps he was sucked in to it. Was he any less deserving? Child of the muck, loathsome and foul. He could taste dirt, smell the moisture. He felt pain and sickness while simultaneously he felt empty and detached. And through his weakening hold on life, her words played in his mind. He thought they could be his own. Perhaps they were. _"... He came to me as a Man, seducing me. I learned in time His evil...Too late...Too late...But now...I am free...Mandos take me... Take me at last..._"

Darkness encroached his vision then, dimness settling over the features of the world. His senses dulled and he knew his eyes closed. And then the orc's words were gone and all of life was gone. There was no Song as all elves knew. Only the penetrating sound of silence greeted him as he was reborn.

**End of Part II. TBC**

_Onodrim - _Ents


	39. What Lies Before Us

**Dark Forest  
**_**By Anarithilien**_

_**Part III: The Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Thirty-Eight: What Lies Before Us**_

Legolas hummed softly as his fingers danced, braiding fibers into rope. He sang what of Iluvatar's Song he could discern from the natural world, imbuing any magic of that gift he might pass into the cords as he did. Absently he dangled his toes in the water below him, the mirror of the lake casting green light upon him as sat on the platform. Breaking his concentration away from his work, he lazily glanced down, spying a small school of sunfish circling and nipping at his feet. He smiled as he wriggled his toes, watching them scurry away from the sudden movement. His action had not even been enough to create a ripple on the water's surface, but to the fish it had been a great disturbing force. He laughed softly to himself, charmed by the observation. Was that not how it was for all things in life? He nodded to himself. _Yes, all of us react only to what lies before us without seeing the greater picture,_ he thought as he resumed his song.

And then he remembered the job of weaving rope and he returned to that as well. How long had he been about this, he wondered, uncertain as to the time of day or when he had really begun his task. If he pressed himself he could remember, but there seemed little point. He had all of eternity to accomplish whatever he might put before himself, and for the moment he was content to simply sit near the water and braid slender fibers into rope.

Of course he could judge time by the stiffness of his muscles and joints if he wanted, or even by the length of the rope, and based on that alone, he decided he had not been at his chore for very long, for he felt no fatigue in his body, nor hunger urging his belly to take on a new occupation, nor even rope enough to prove he had accomplished a great task. So he remained where he was, contentedly braiding.

He allowed his mind to flit away, dancing with the song, and he barely noticed when another walked down the platform or came to stand at his side. He looked up when he felt the touch of a hand upon his shoulder only, but he smiled at the maiden who greeted him.

"Might you take some refreshment, my lord?" she asked as she handed him a cup, and though he felt no need, the gesture was enough for him to agree.

He sipped from the bowl then and allowed the beverage to linger over his tongue before he swallowed. It took but a moment before he felt the effects drift over him, and then he forgot that the maiden was even there in that instant. Lightness filled him, and he was floating above his body, all thoughts gone as he buoyed over nothingness. Abruptly he noted that the cup was being lifted from his hands before he could spill what remained within it out onto the deck.

He would lounge in his moment if he could, but then laughed at his feebleness. The wine of Mírnen was a very heady drink, but its effect was short. He gazed at the girl. She did not seem to notice his state and in that moment he thought he could love her for that show of discretion. Her radiance was beguiling as the sun haloed about her head, and she looked as an ethereal being, quite golden and light -- so much so that he thought to kiss her.

But he knew such a cavalier moment would be meaningless, for her name eluded him. He thought it wrong to kiss someone if you could not recall their name. One might as well place a kiss upon the air. Yet an instant later it came to him as if he had been born to utter the word, and he nodded. "My thanks, Darinel." Still, as he said it, the thought of kissing her flew away.

She nodded in return, but showed no signs of leaving him. It was then he realized she was also sitting on the platform with her feet dangling into the water just as were his, but he did not mind sharing the space. He noted that she sang a song that was different from what he had been humming, but it fit nicely into his own notes, and so he allowed her voice to intermingle with his, weaving in and out like the fibers of the rope he had been braiding.

"How long has it been now, Darinel?" he asked after some time passed. Had the day gone ahead of him, or was it just a minute that had moved away? He looked up to the sky and judged it had not been so long as a day yet.

"Do you mean since you came to us here?" the maiden asked, and Legolas found himself surprised at her answer, for he had not been thinking that question but one of the hour of the day. Still, he liked her interpretation and so nodded. "I do not measure time all that well, my lord," she continued, "but were I to try and count the seasons, I would say near two hundred have passed."

"Mhm," Legolas murmured, neither stunned by this disclosure nor ignorant of it. The fact was that he had recently tried to count the seasons himself and had concluded that since coming to Mírnen, some fifty years had passed, more or less. It was hard to know with any certainty, for it did not feel that long, though simultaneously he had felt that it did.

What amused him about it was that once he might have been upset to realize how much time had gone by. The racing of the sun had meant something to him in times past, and he had lived in those days as if each breath he took mattered. Vaguely he recalled that that had been when he had served as one of the Nine and wandered about on the Quest. Now, it mattered so little to him that he truly had to concentrate to notice that such a thing as _time _even existed.

It was the Hobbits he best recalled, for they found something strange in the passage of time when the Fellowship had come into Lothlorien realm. Though Legolas had found nothing unusual there, the Hobbits said they could not tell how things moved in that place. They said they could not judge a day's passing, or even when night came, and though the elf had found such a thing odd then, now he felt he understood. Since coming to Mírnen he had lived as if there was no solidity to the world's passing and bending.

And if what Darinel said was true, it was clear he had grown accustomed to the ambiguity of time. It no longer bothered him that he did not know of it.

But his sense of contentment suddenly dissipated as a vision came uninvited into his mind. His heart felt the thrum of ache as he recalled the face of his friend, Gimli. He did not know why it was there, for it interrupted everything. As of late he had been disturbed many times from moments of peace by the abrupt vision of one he had reconciled departed long ago.

"Ghosts of the past haunt me yet," he lamented. He felt almost as if his old friend stood before him on the opposite side of the lake. Still he knew the dwarf was not there, for he had seen this figment before. Sorrow moved him deeply, for nothing would bring him more joy than to see Gimli again. Yet never was this vision more than that of memories plaguing him.

"Your heart aches," a voice said from over his shoulder, and Legolas knew who spoke. He reached up his hand so that he might find the comforting touch that awaited him there.

"I have buried all that remained, but still I feel there is something left undone," Legolas said in a quiet murmur.

"Let us go to the grave then so that you might tell this spirit as much. Perhaps he will let you know what it is he requires of you," the other said, taking his hand. It was a standard remedy, but often it had helped.

Legolas nodded, using the leverage offered to pull himself to his feet. And then he grimaced. He should have predicted the shooting pain the move would incur.

"This too? You are not having a good day, are you, friend?" the other asked as he took Legolas by the arm to keep him from falling.

"It is bothering me much in recent days, though for the most part I can ignore it," Legolas explained feeling the swift agony pass.

"Can you make the walk to the cliff?"

Legolas replied with a bright smile. No words need be said between them, for Faeldaer knew what Legolas was capable of doing when he set his mind to a task. A walk seemed such a small thing.

Still, he had to acknowledge that the injury had never healed properly and on occasion the old wound would flare up causing Legolas periods of pain and these crippling movements. He knew now that he must not abuse it if he was to remain whole, a strange notion for an elf who had once been a warrior. But this too was a lesson of life's making it seemed; eventually everything met you on the path you trod. He had always taken it for granted that his natural healing ability would allow him to brush off moments of discomfort. But this wound was not remedied as others might be. This one came back again and again.

He hobbled down the path leading to the lightly submerged bridge that crossed the lake. Faeldaer followed closely behind, ready to catch him should he fall. But Legolas was determined he would not. When he made it to the other side, he halted so that the auburn-haired elf might walk at his side, and he used the support of his friend's arm to walk the rest of the way.

"I wish we might have done better in treating you when you first came to us, Legolas," Faeldaer said, his frown deepening with the younger elf's every step.

"You are healers the none of you. You did as best you could and I do not fault you. I made the situation worse by resisting you, as you may recall," Legolas excused.

"Were I you, I might have done the same," Faeldaer returned.

"It is past," Legolas dismissed, not wanting to discuss it further. He would rather think only on the calm he had found since relinquishing his fight.

They continued to walk the green path, and the elder started to hum as they moved to the downward slope. Legolas could hear the melody of the wood in his song, and it lightened his heart even more. Of all the elves in Mírnen, Faeldaer seemed to hear the Song in a way that most closely matched him. Perhaps that was why he knew Faeldaer best and found the other elves faded to nameless souls for him.

In another few minutes the forest broke open, and they stood on the edge of the narrow cliff wall. In front of them the vista exposed a huge expanse, and Legolas could see the significant world beyond the great green wood where he stood. The Entwash flowed silver in the bright light of the sun, and the grasses of the Celebrant fields rippled as if ocean waves rolled over them. A cooling breeze brushed back Legolas' hair, and his eyes narrowed as he looked out over a world he could no longer claim. He felt like he could see forever, but there was nothing in that distant horizon he cared to see. He would have his old friends, certainly, but that was an impossibility and accepting as much he knew they were gone to him now. He turned his gaze instead to Faeldaer, thinking the elf and this realm a far better place to focus his eyes.

Faeldaer nodded to the object of their quest and Legolas turned his eyes there as well. At the end of the narrow cliff lay two graves along with the stone he had placed to commemorate his friend's place. It was nestled among the rocks he and Gimli had removed when they had sought out Narvi's resting place, and now the dwarf's body lay there beneath, keeping quiet companionship to the deeper grave of Aule's other child.

"So lay the two, side by side," he said, thinking then of the day he had placed Gimli's body next to the cave that had buried Narvi. He stepped onto the platform and gingerly bent to the ground, touching the flattened stone that served as the grave's marker. His fingers brushed over the chiseled cuts of the simple epitaph. "'Elvellon'," he read, and then closed his eyes. He did not want tears to come. He had cried so many already.

"The inscription serves them both," Faeldaer said. "Narvi too was a friend to the elves."

"Even if he was not dear to you?" Legolas asked, attempting to make jest.

"He became dear, in the end. I have my regrets too," Faeldaer said, and Legolas saw that he was not the only one who mourned.

"I did not mean to disparage your friendship," he apologized.

"Nay, you have not. I was the one who spent those years jealously guarding myself," the other replied. "He loved my people. That should have made me realize I had no reason to withhold my affections."

"I suppose I should add Narvi's name here," Legolas said, touching the stone. "Gimli said a dwarf's grave should be inscribed for all of his kin to witness, and I suppose in that he meant a running account of the dwarf's lineage was to be chronicled. But were I to do such, Gimli's grave would be the lesser of the two, and to me that is not so. 'Elvellon' is the name for them both, and all those who would visit this place have memory enough to know one from the next."

Faeldaer nodded as he came to stand at Legolas' side and the younger mused for a moment at his friend's place. Faeldaer had oft decried this place as a fit grave and Legolas suspected it was the height and narrowness of the cliff that he objected to. "Do you come to catch me should I start to fall?" He looked over his shoulder at the slanting drop to the river that had been the ultimate cause of his separation from the dwarf.

"Catch you? I think not. Should you choose to fly nothing could set you from that journey. You are a stubborn elf, after all." He paused though and his tone grew serious as he met Legolas' eyes. "It might be I would join you," he stated, and Legolas was moved by the sentiment. Almost he might read a deeper meaning into the words if he did not know better.

He carefully stood, trying his utmost not to show signs of pain as he did. Yet Faeldaer was there as his aide, despite his words, and he put a strong hand around Legolas' upper arm. The touch stirred Legolas' heart and he met Faeldaer's gaze as he raised his head equal to the other. Those golden eyes penetrated him, and he could see the other elf searching his features. And then he brushed a hand over Legolas' cheek. Yet despite the comfort this gesture brought, Legolas knew it to be no more than a sign of friendly affection, for Faeldaer's heart belonged to Celebrimbor. He contented himself with that knowledge, but closed his eyes in a moment of longing. It seemed he might never know what it was to feel true love and this was the one thing that saddened him for his life in Mírnen.

But on the dark side of his lids he saw again Gimli's face, and his next breath was one of surprise and sorrow. He gasped at the sight. "He is here," he moaned.

Faeldaer helped him to sit once more on the ledge and then when Legolas was not looking he pressed a flask into his hands.

Legolas flinched at the intrusion, but then relinquished when he realized what it was his friend did. "I had not seen your wineskin there," he nodded then drank, noticing only then the sling the elf had been carrying over his shoulder where the beverage had been hidden.

"Fortification," Faeldaer said with a small laugh, and Legolas smiled at his friend's concern and the perceived need of wine to help him. Of course Faeldaer was right. He leaned back as his sorrow eased; the drink always had quick effect upon him and he welcomed it.

"I know not how to make this vision stop," he said when his lightheadedness faded. Even before his waking eyes he could see Gimli calling out to him now.

"Let him come," Faeldaer offered then. "Perhaps you need to release the memory to help cleanse this misery from your soul."

Legolas smiled despite his sadness. He had heard this before. "That is something Gimli would have said were he alive still," he whispered, and again he closed his eyes so that he might see the dwarf more clearly. But this time he leaned his head against Faeldaer's shoulder. He would take the support he was offered. The discovery of his friend's corpse had been a horror to him and such memories were not easy to live alone. He would take the companionship Faeldaer gave, even if it was not the kind for which he truly yearned.

**TBC**

**A/N: **For those of you who had been clamoring for more Legolas, well, here you have it. I expect to receive reviews in payment for this, you know. *grin*

In the coming weeks/months, my regular updates for this story may taper off a bit. I have a whompingly huge project that is about to land on my desk, and personal pleasures (like writing fanfic) are being pushed to the backburner. Don't feel slighted though… the hubby and kids are being made to queue up for my attentions too. And of course, that doesn't mean you should cease from posting reviews. I like reviews. They feed my muse. Give me reviews (please).


	40. The Beetle and the Mantis

**Dark Forest  
**_**By Anarithilien**_

_**Part III: In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Beetle and the Mantis**_

In remembrance, Legolas slipped back in time to the jumbled order of those first days.

"You shall not hold me!" he ground out between his teeth as he fought those who kept him trapped.

His eyes were wide open but it mattered not; he was blind to what was occurring, his body held down, transported and tended. It frightened him, the phantom touches, far too reminiscent of wicked events in his past. But there was nothing he could do to halt its happening and he could see none of it. Yet his sightlessness was selective. On occasion the image of Mithtaur towering over him would come into his sightline, or even that of the strange, golden-eyed elf he remembered from his dream. But there were no others.

Still voices -- multiple voices -- whispers -- echoed around him. He knew he was not alone. Garbled words filled his mind but he could make no sense of them. "....make him understand..." The words seemed so far away.

He fought to rise.

A hand pressed him down. "...must lay still..."

"No!" he cried, confused and mired in pain. "Gimli! Help me!"

"...drink..."

Hands, beyond those holding him down, groped at his features, trying to pry his mouth open.

"...dying..."

"...toxin in the blood...."

He attempted to shrug them off but there were too many, and he found his effort difficult to hold.

"Keep him still," a voice with some authority commanded, but still Legolas would not ease.

"...a way to calm him..."

Someone grabbed his raw wound then -- his leg! -- and in surprise he cried out through the pain. It was enough for someone to push his head down and the one at his throat to force his mouth open. Another with the drink was there, pouring the contents into his throat, gagging him. Swiftly his jaw was clamped shut as were his nostrils. He choked painfully as he swallowed.

His stomach spasmed as the contents settled. Sickness overwhelmed him. He felt the world spinning around him and he yearned for it to stop.

He spun.

He floated.

He felt light and heavy simultaneously.

He felt dizzy.

He opened his eyes to see he was laying in the cradled hand of Mithtaur, with the tree creature softly singing to him. He rolled to his side as the contents of his belly spilled to the floor of the forest below. Tears filled his eyes as the cramping forced the misery out of him.

He rolled to his back and the world was again spinning.

"How long will it be like this?" he heard Gimli ask.

"Not long, I think. When the draught takes effect everything will settle," someone answered. At first he thought it was Mithtaur who answered, but then he realized the auburn-haired elf said this. Legolas glanced up so he might see the elf's face more clearly, trying to remember why he knew then he saw his father there instead.

Thranduil stroked his head and he placed a cool hand to his fevered brow. A soft smile curved up the corners of his lips. It startled Legolas to see such an expression of concern on his father's face. He had not forgiven him? But he shook his head, not wishing his father's touch, the ghostly fingers and now these tender caresses too reminiscent of a wretched experience done long ago -- he would prefer not recall. "No, please," he moaned, but there were hands upon his body again and they would not stop. In horror and shame, he wept, for he was helpless to make it end.

Eyes closed, he could taste the bitterness of medicine in his mouth, a remnant of that previous dosing. He felt the sudden loss of ground and in that instant he could not find difference between up and down. He knew only a sort of buoyancy that made the rest of the world non-existent. And then finding his strength failed and the weight of pain and illness overwhelming him, he gave in to it, feeling weak and utterly lost.

Heavy. Light.

He realized himself a time later gasping at the suddenness of his waking. Sudden cold violated the empty place unconsciousness had delivered to him. Again he fought, trying to pull away from those who held him. "No!" he cried, but the sound of this word was sluggish and weak. The chill only lasted a moment as fevered heat returned to him. He had not realized he was so ill but he also found himself helpless to fight those holding him down. He ached everywhere and his head pounded out an unmerciful thrum at the same tempo as his heart.

At the same time, the cool felt wondrously comforting, and he relaxed into it with little choice. He was being immersed in a bath. As if the thought were a random thing, it occurred to him he did not know why he had been fighting and that he would be wiser to relinquish his battle and let these people do what they would to him. It was his body's response and only when he considered it did he realize that his mind wished to follow.

Someone spoke from behind him and he realized that whoever it was, they held his head so as to keep it from sliding into the pool. Still he could not make sense of the words. It took a delayed moment for them to become clear, but by then the conversation had progressed among the others in the room and he could not keep up with it. What he could put sense to was a single statement. "...fever could be fatal..."

He was drifting into sleep, eased by the chill into a lazy feeling that seemed to fill him. He wondered if he should have been alarmed, and it distantly occurred to him that their medicines had made him feel this way. Yet as reverie started to flit in the periphery of his mind, he recalled words of importance he had cried out before.

'My friend...' he whispered then. His voice sounded so weak. "Gimli..."

'We will try to find him,' someone promised, words whispered into his ear, and briefly he opened his eyes to see it was that elf with the golden eyes that said this.

"You," he simply said in recognition. But he felt so weary and his eyes drifted shut.

As listlessness claimed him, he heard the reply to his asking.

"I am Faeldaer."

He wondered if he was dying. Never had he felt so weak or so helpless. And he thought for as much as he slept, he remained ever fatigued. He desired nothing more than to lay still, to let whatever was to claim him come. It was easier if he could just remain in that void where nothing hurt.

Yet he remembered again Gimli and knew, for the sake of his friend, he could not slide into apathy now. He had to hold to his hopes.

He was sinking into the ground. Mud oozed around him. He was being buried.

Time made little sense to him and he came to awareness many times without knowing that he had. Vaguely he remembered being asked simple questions, giving his name when asked. But he was certain he had disclosed nothing that could be used against him. He had no real secrets, after all.... now that the war was done. Still, he knew he was mindful of the nature of the questions posed him, and they were innocent enough. He asked in return and was given what he could manage though his brain seemed unable to retain the answers and he knew he asked the same questions over and over again through his waking times.

_Who are you?_

"We are the elves of Mírnen."

_Why can I not see you?_

"Already things change. We think you will soon enough."

_Do you see me?_

"You are vague to us as well, but Mithtaur assures us you are here. We are doing as best we can to help you."

_Why am I here?_

"We do not know...we do not know...we do not know..."

_My friend, Gimli --_

"We look for him. We are trying."

The world was like one continuous dream, only he knew somehow that it was not. Elves did not dream, not like men; they only remembered. He found nothing to make the world coherent and solid and he floated about hopelessly in a state of illogical reasoning.

Legolas' eyes drifted. Light, heavy. Open, shut. He tried to make sense of his place in time. The linens on the bed were white, and the space of his room was white as well. There was calm to be found in the lack of hue. Beyond, his window ledge was dappled with water droplets, the remnants of an earlier rain. Further, past the frame, there was nothing but a fog. It was as if a blank canvas had been made of the world and it was now his to do as he would.

Yet a single small creature dodged the droplets as it moved along the ledge of the window frame. It was a beetle, made clear to him because of its dark, green coloring in the vibrant whiteness of everything around it. A small twig that lay near twitched. He realized this was no stick but a mantis, quietly waiting for the beetle to come near. It might have appeared it was oblivious to the approaching insect, but Legolas saw it slowly draw up its front pincers for the strike. He could hear his heart beating as he watched, trepidation and fear suddenly claiming him though he knew not why. In an instant, the mantis made its attack, snapping its curved arms to grab at the unsuspecting beetle. It immediately began the task of devouring the creature. There was no hesitation in what it did.

xxx

Slowly the world seemed to be gaining something more than just the flitting of unconnected moments and thoughts. He reminded himself again that this was no dream, and so what he was living was reality, even if it made no sense.

His eyes were not open but he was aware that someone was moving about the room. He must have stirred for a rich voice spoke to him. "At last. I did not think you would ever come to wakefulness."

A deep ache lay in his skull yet, and his limbs felt unconnected. "Where am I?" he was able to rasp out, noting a soreness that penetrated to the back of his throat.

"You are in Mírnen," the other answered.

"Mírnen..." Legolas repeated. He had been given this answer before though it was an empty response. Like a strange memory, he recalled journeying to a place called Mírnen when the war had ended, but he could not remember why or how that had come to be. "I... do not..." He tried to get his mind to follow a straight path, but the moments of his illness, the pain and a patchwork of reality merged into one strange course. Whatever it was that brought him here, it made little sense.

In the muddled shifting of his thoughts, he saw again the beetle and the mantis. He shuddered a sudden convulsion.

"Where is Gimli?" he asked. He recalled that before he had asked this too, and memory now came to him of the answer he'd been given. His eyes then opened and he saw he was again in the white room though this time shades of grey and brown dappled the space.

Amber eyes met his and startled him. The shock of color was surprising, like being introduced to light when he had only known dark. He had grown used to not seeing so clearly, but now he could. The elf -- Faeldaer he now recalled -- was the one who had spoken to him. And now, a tentative hand reached so far as to touch the trim of the sheets. Legolas saw a chair was pulled next to the bed, and he could hear the creaking sound of its legs pressing into the floorboards.

His awareness of these things was obliterated however by the answer the elf delivered, "We cannot find Gimli," Faeldaer replied, and his brow contorted as if the words pained him.

And then Legolas paid no mind to the details about him. The responding words overwhelmed him.

"Gimli...?" Legolas began, fear suddenly constricting his breath and weighing heavily upon his chest.

He could hear the rapid state of his breath. Panic was overtaking him.

The vision of Gimli, drifting away on the current, entered his mind again. He felt crippled by the guilt that stabbed him. He had caused this.

Somehow he must find his friend. It was his fault that they had been separated. He had been responsible for guiding the dwarf on this fated journey. He had forced their onward march. And for what reason?

He now recalled it was to find a connection to Thranduil. It seemed such a pointless exercise, the effect of a cankered heart. Why had he done this?

"I must find my friend," he murmured, rolling to his side though he was not sure he knew what he might do once he actually rose.

"We have tried. He is lost to us here," Faeldaer's deep voice reverberated about the hollow space of the room, drawing Legolas' attention back to him.

"I must find him." Legolas repeated, but his head was already sending the room into a sweeping spin just in making these small movements.

"I do not think that you can," the elf said. Legolas felt a hand on his shoulder and it steadied him somewhat. "Please, before you do anything, let me explain."

The hand squeezed consolingly and tears came to Legolas' eyes. He shook it off. "No," he cried. "I have to find him." And again he tried to rise. Gimli. He had to find Gimli. He could not bear thinking his friend gone. "What has happened to me? I feel ... Why am I so ill?"

"You do not remember?"

"No. Tell me," Legolas said as he clung to the bed. He could feel a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. He was shaking.

"We spoke of this before. It concerns me that you cannot recall," Faeldaer said, his voice etched in worry.

"Tell me!" Legolas shouted, finding his patience waning. He rolled again to his back.

"Your leg --" Faeldaer began.

"I was stabbed. I can feel that," Legolas said shortly his hand wandering down to the bandage there. "What else?" He could see the other elf's face.

Faeldaer smiled softly reaching out a tentative hand to brush the wrappings about his brow. "There was a blow to the head, some broken ribs, and the leg --" He held up his hand to ward off Legolas' objections. "-- there were splinters in the wound and an infection set in. You do not recall this." It was a statement but there was question laced in the words.

"I..." Legolas began, and then he did recall. Nodding, he said, "The illness ... yes, I remember."

"Thus your weakness. You are still recovering." Legolas understood, but he knew the moment was still upon him. He should try again to rise. "Please, let me..." Faeldaer was saying.

But Legolas pushed away, finally getting his hands beneath him to help leverage him up. It was an ill-planned venture, for he had no strength yet. The world began to roll again, and black spots encroached upon his vision. A cold sweat formed upon his brow. A steady note rang in his ears.

Vaguely he realized unconsciousness was claiming him again, and he was not sure it was unwelcome. He could flee his guilt in unawareness. Still, the trade was dizzying sickness and a painful ache deep in his skull.

"Legolas! Do you hear me?"

But Legolas did not hear. Or at least he chose not to have means for reply. He sank back into the bed and drifted into misery and sorrow. Gimli was gone and that was all his mind could manage to cling to. Gimli was lost and he was alone.

"_No one seeks me."_

"_But your position? Your rank, Thranduilion...? Is there no one who would look for you? Would your father not search?" _

Legolas stirred to sudden wakefulness, the admitted relationship to Mirkwood's king made the question abrupt and startling to him. Had he been speaking? This caused him to start, his breath catching. It was as if he had been in the middle of conversation. But he had been unconscious, had he not?

He looked at the elf to which he had last left off. Faeldaer appeared in the same place he had been before, at the side of the bed, unmoved, the time of day the same, or as much so as Legolas could determine. But Faeldaer appeared startled that he was awake, frowning. But he seemed to recover himself enough to carry forward, his dark gaze fading as his brow softened. His expression was replaced with a look of sincerity and it seemed he picked up the conversation right where it left off. "You should know what has happened to you and what has happened to your friend. I do not want you to think we have not tried to find him."

Legolas shook his head, suddenly remembering as he did so that he would be better to remain still. But there was no pain and so he pressed his reply further. "Gimli is alive," he said, and then he pushed onto his elbows determined again that he should rise. If this moment were the same as before, he would not have changed his mind about wanting to find his friend, and the guilt he had previously felt before once again took hold of his heart. Faeldaer was there then, propping pillows beneath him and helping him as he struggled to sit. Legolas gazed at the other, and then continued. "I know Gimli is hale. He is strong and will not fall. He is alive."

"He may well be," Faeldaer said, patting his shoulder as he settled Legolas into a more upright position. "I will not question your belief. But I must explain why _we_ could not find him."

Legolas was not pleased by the ease of the other's disregard for his friend and so replied with irritaion, "I know no 'we' here." He watched as the elf crossed the room and now poured water from the washstand into a cup; Legolas realized that he was very thirsty. Still, he continued. "You are the only elf I have seen and I am coming to believe that you are a ghostly figment of the elves who once lived in these woods."

Faeldaer turned, a half smile gracing his face as he laughed. "Ghost? You think I am a houseless one? Nay, I am no ghost. I -- we are the elves of Mírnen."

"Yet I see no one but you. And before you I saw no one," Legolas replied.

"If I am a ghost apparition, how do you explain the bed you lay upon or the room that surrounds you?" Faeldaer asked.

Legolas glanced around at the vague surroundings but had no reply. He shrugged his answer.

Faeldaer stepped the distance back to the bed then, handing Legolas the cup. The young elf could see it contained clear water and he sipped at it, feeling the refreshing liquid slip down his throat, quenching his thirst. It felt cool and clean and he relished the relief it offered. He watched then as Faeldaer sat, saying as he did, "Nay, we are real, and there are many of us, though I can understand why you would think us not to be real. We elves of Mírnen have been ensorcelled after all."

Legolas drew back from the cup. "Ensorcelled?" he asked.

Faeldaer nodded. "Yes, caught in a wicked trap, a dark magic. By Sauron."

Legolas remembered the battle he had witnessed and that it had leveled Mírnen. Still, the idea of an enchantment needed greater explanation than simply this. He would not easily accept such a claim. "You seem real enough to me. How is it you came to be magicked?" he asked.

"A curse was placed upon us. A great fog covered these lands, and when it lifted we found ourselves trapped."

Legolas gazed beyond the elf to the window beyond. A fog hovered beyond the panes of the glass. He could see again the mantis sitting there on that plank, alone. Directing his eyes to the vague world, he replied, "I think it has not lifted."

Faeldaer removed the cup from Legolas' hand without protest from the younger. "To your eyes, that is so," he said, glancing to the window as Legolas had. "But to me --for us-- it is a brilliant day."

Legolas shook his head. "I see none of it, nor do I see others."

"Have you been told the full of our story?"

Legolas recalled the strange dream memory that had come to him while visiting the Ents and he knew that it was this that Faeldaer was alluding to. "You speak of your part in coming here? I know that Celebrimbor sent you here to escape Hollin."

Faeldaer's eyes locked on Legolas' and he stared at him intently. There was subtle pain behind the mask of solemnity the elf saw there. "Do you know then that I held the Elf Ring, Nenya, for a time before I surrendered It to Galadriel?"

"It was as you should have done. Galadriel is the rightful possessor," Legolas stated, defending what had been the wiser choice. He had felt, even in the dream memory, that it had been wrong for Faeldaer to take and use the Ring made for her alone.

Faeldaer seemed only to agree. "I did not realize at first. But I came to see It was not mine. Further, we were at the center of Sauron's attack. I realized the harm suffered to Mírnen was because I had chosen to keep the Ring. I gave it to Galadriel in the end. And in doing, her army came to engage in battle. As that happened, I fled to my own people so that I might save them. But Sauron was not done with me or with this forest. In his rage and for the sake of spite, he cast a spell over Mírnen. He created a fog that came to hang over this realm. He cast his spell," Faeldaer continued.

Legolas blinked his eyes finding them suddenly growing heavy. Thinking again of Gimli, he asked, "What of Narvi, the dwarf? Did you reach him?

The elf shook his head. "Narvi died while protecting my people. I was able to free them even though the dwarf did not survive. There are thirty-two of us now here."

Whether he wanted it or not, Legolas' imagination followed this tale as Faeldaer described it. And though the words blurred, he could see the body of the dwarf as it was laid to rest in the cave, his skull crushed and his body half buried under the rubble of stone. He felt the other's anguish as he pictured the demise.

"We waited until the fog lifted, and as soon as it did, we tried to leave the woods. That's when we came to learn of the spell."

And with this, Legolas could imagine them wandering the wood, only in this vision he was among them. He dreamt this, he realized, somehow finding he was transported to the place; he remembered this too had been as when he had been with the Ents.

He walked a long while, stumbling where he should not have were his grace still intact. His left leg hurt terribly and he was finding it difficult to walk without reaching out to a near tree to keep his balance. Throughout, the dizziness and achy illness did not leave him, and he felt just as he had while he had been in the bed. Fevered, nauseated, weary. He knew he was trying to find his way out, but after a time he returned to the river where all of his troubles had begun. The water there was no longer muddy and tempestuous, but it was not to be mistaken. It was the place where he and Gimli had been separated, and Legolas could not seem to venture past it.

"For every time we attempted our venture out, we could find no exit," Faeldaer said, cutting into this vision.

"How did I come to be?" Legolas counter, his eyes opening as he became aware again of his surroundings. He had not realized they had closed.

"I do not know why you are with us now. We query the same. Mithtaur brought you to us because he had hurt you. He was angry when he had struck out at you, I think. Two trees were lost when that cliffside collapsed. We do not know how this was possible though because for us the cliff is whole, the trees remain. But then neither does he. It is all part of the enchantment."

"Mithtaur can see you?" Legolas asked then, confirming this small fact.

"He can. He came to us a few months after the battle. He reported that, to his eyes, all had been decimated. Yet for us, all came to be as it had been before. We saw the world as if it were green again.

"That was when we realized the full of Sauron's spell. Somehow, Mithtaur could come and go from this place. He could see the world outwardly as it appeared to all beyond but he could see us as well. He told us that other Ents, and even elves, had come to find us, to see the devastation. We saw none of them, or it."

"Then you could not see me," Legolas said. "Or my friend, Gimli."

Faeldaer paused here. "Yes... your friend. And that is where we began, for I came to tell you why we could not find him."

Legolas gave him his full attention then. "If you could not see him, or me, then he may still be out there, only not noticed by your eyes!" He pushed into his hands, trying to rise to a full seat. He remembered again that he must rise and find Gimli. But it was a dizzying move, and he found he could not manage it.

"Yes, yes, there is that," Faeldaer said, not seeming to notice his efforts. "And then there is also the limit of our barriers. We cannot venture past."

"There are barriers?" Legolas asked weakly, sinking back into his pillows as a heavy breathlessness overtook his efforts.

"Aye. We are prisoners. We can go only so far before the borders of this realm close in around us, containing us," the elder explained.

"I saw no barriers or signs of borders when we traveled into Fangorn," Legolas replied, confused. "I saw devastation, a forest blighted, a dead landscape. I saw... no evidence of you."

Faeldaer nodded. "And neither us of you. But I must tell you that your appearance to us now gives us hope."

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked, raising his head.

"It is because Mithtaur sees both world's that we think you might do the same," Faeldaer opined.

"You think I may leave?" Legolas began.

"You are new to this place. We do not know how you came to be here, or even why you are here, but I suspect..." The elf's voice fell away, and Legolas wondered at his meaning. Faeldaer continued, "Perhaps the Valar delivered you to us. Perhaps there is a reason you have come as no other has. This world is yet in a fog to you, is it not? You have said it so. I think that may be good. We think... I think that if you were to leave, before it becomes a solid place, you might escape this wood. You would not be doomed as we are."

"Doomed..." Legolas repeated.

"We cannot leave, Legolas."

Legolas allowed that thought to settle but then agreed to try. He would not wish to be trapped anywhere. Such a thought made him think of his father's realm and the years he had been held in service there. Still, it was not like this. That prison was only one of a promise. "I am yet ill," he reminded.

Faeldaer smiled. He seemed eager for Legolas to take action, and given his imprisonment, Legolas could not blame him. "Mithraur will take you,"

Yet what he said worried Legolas. "But Mithtaur..." Legolas began, thinking of the Ent's insanity,

Faeldaer supplied a counter to this argument. "We know that he paid entrance to this world with the madness he now must endure without. When he steps beyond... Ai, but you have seen that side of him! None believe his rantings. In this world though, he is quite sane. We think his long search for us in the tainted fog created this. He breathed those poisoned fumes over a time, drank the poisoned waters. What is important is that he may have found a means past the lock that keeps us. He claims nothing unusual occurs as he ventures out, but somehow he does get out. It does not work for us, but for you, being new to this place, it might be you and Mithtaur are the same."

"Will I be mad as he if I leave?"

"Would you prefer to stay?" Faeldaer asked in reply.

Legolas shook his head in answer, but it was partly so also that he might stir himself to wake. Weariness was catching up to him and though he would leave now if he could, the need for sleep was suddenly overwhelming. He truly did not understand his fatigue. "And if it is so and I might leave?" Legolas asked as he drowsily slid to his side.

"If it is, we hope you might help us find a way to escape as well," Faeldaer said, but his words seemed so far away.

"How?" He asked this, but he could remain awake no more. Whatever answer came he did not hear it. But he did not need to, for he knew. If he escaped then he should let others know of these elves so they might try and find a way to free them of the spell. It is what he would ask were he one of them, and it is what he would do when he was free. Free. He was flying, a bird.

xxx

"Why am I here, Mithtaur?" Legolas asked. He was far from healed, barely ready to be aright. His head was spinning and his body yet hurt. But he was trying to make his escape, just as Faeldaer had requested.

By his reckoning it was a mere few days since he had spoken the idea with the Mírnen elf. In this time he thought he might be better healed, but somehow his illness lingered, like the fog that surrounded him.

"Faeldaer asked me to bring you," the Ent said, but the answer was not to the question Legolas posed. Of course Faeldaer asked Mithtaur to bring him on this newest journey. It was tasked of them both to now leave. But Legolas wanted to know if the Ent knew how he had managed to bring the elf _in _to this strange world.

Legolas shook his head, not understanding the strange creature or how Faeldaer could think him sane. He had not seen evidence to prove him wrong. But he chose to ignore this for now. If he was to escape and find Gimli, he must put his trust in this Ent, for he did not have the strength to do this on his own yet. Should he wait for it to return, he might miss the opportunity as it presented itself now.

"It is such a haze of clouds surrounding us, I cannot see," Legolas said.

"I see no cloudscloudsclouds. But no worries, my friend, I will carry you," Mithtaur replied. "I can carry you as I did before."

"I will hold to you then, Mithtaur, for I do not think I could go far without you," the elf said as he climbed with some pain into the limbs of the ancient tree lord. "But please hold to me as well."

They set out marching over the hidden path set within the water of the lake. All about the world was masked in the mysterious haze. A smell of rot permeated the place, not unlike that which Legolas had sensed when he had come here with Gimli. But the edges of the water or the boundaries about it were lost to Legolas' eyes. He could only look down to see the Ents feet skimming the surface of the lake and then marching onto solid ground again when they had crossed to the other side. It was the only clue he had that they had reached the main forest. And then they moved forward into the wood.

The journey was to be a short one with Mithtaur marching on his long legs the few miles it would take to get to Fangorn's borders. Once there, Legolas hoped from he might find Arod, and then he would swiftly flee to Lothlorien so that he might seek aid in locating his friend. Of course it would be better still should he and Mithtaur discover Gimli along the way. He tried to imagine that reunion. It would be a happy one, with Gimli no more wounded than he, and together they would venture to the Golden Wood for recovery. And from there they would plead for the aid of Galadriel and Celeborn to free these elves who had once been a part of their realm in Hollin. Of course the lord and lady would aid them. Somehow Faeldaer and the others would be freed.

More frightening was the prospect of finding Gimli with greater injury. Legolas, wounded as he was, would have difficulty offering aid to Gimli if he were in a more serious state. Yet he would find a way to save the dwarf, he knew, even if it meant, crippled as he was, that he had to carry Gimli the entire way. He would not desert his friend.

Of course, there was the possibility too that Gimli was dead, but Legolas shook his head to that, refusing to allow his imagination to take hold of that horror. Tears stung his eyes as the thought tickled his consciousness though, but he would not allow it entrance. Gimli was alive. He was alive, for he must be. Legolas would not have anything else.

One thought however he would not gainsay, and that was one of failure. Of course Legolas thought he would leave these woods. Why would he not? He was not a part of Mírnen's enchantment. He had not even existed in the days when that wickedness had taken place. He saw no reason then why he would not leave.

As they marched downward, following the slope of the hills, Legolas glanced behind to note their course. He could make out few details of the world around him, but he was determined that once returned to the outside lands he would find his way back and he intended to note every landmark that he could, ensorcelled lands or not. He was thinking that they must be nearing the river by now, for that had been the point where he and Gimli had become separated, and again he gazed down so he might see when the Ent crossed into stone and water.

That small move, that look down, was all he had chance to note though, for it was then that he found himself suddenly falling. He flailed wildly as he landed, rolling to his side on the leaf-covered ground, doing his utmost to protect his pained leg. He was not hurt, but he wondered what it was that had caused his fall. It felt as if he had been walked directly into a tree. Only, there were no trees directly before him.

"Mithtaur," he called to the Ent. The old greywood had promised to hold to him, but he apparently had forgotten that pledge. Further, he seemed not to notice that Legolas had been tossed. The aged tree creature walked on, oblivious to his cry. "Mithtaur!" he tried again.

He immediately claimed his feet and hobbled after the Ent. But Mithtaur's long steps quickly outpaced Legolas' pained ones, and it was not long before the tree lord was gone from his sight. The fog loomed in and what he could see of the forest hindered his view even further.

He thought to track the Ent's path, but there too, no steps were visible to him, and it was the same as he tried to double back. He thought then that, if nothing else, if he could find it, he could follow the course of the river, for it was what he and Gimli had used to enter the wood. Yet his path eluded him. He found nothing but grey clouds all around him.

He wandered for hours just as he had in the waking vision he had experienced with Faeldaer, stumbling where he should not have. His left leg throbbed horribly and he was finding it difficult to walk or keep his balance. The dizziness and achy illness persisted and he felt fevered and weary. And when fatigue finally claimed him, he sank to the ground in exhaustion and sobbed. He was lost.

**TBC**


	41. An Attempt at Flight

**Author's Notes:** My sincere apologies for the long absence. Not only have I been buried in work for the last several months, but I had a recent accident (biking incident, entirely my fault) and was put out of commission while recovering from being surgically put back together. I'm happy to be up and moving, regaining my mobility, but it took me out of the loop for even longer than I had planned. I'll try to get back on track.

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty: An Attempt at Flight**_

"I succumb willingly to madness," Legolas said as he drew onto the terrace beyond his room. Faeldaer followed behind him.

The golden elf gazed out to the forest beyond the lake as Faeldaer said, "Do not say such things, Thranduilion. I will vouch for the reality of all you see, whether you wish to believe it true or not."

Legolas frowned. This conversation was not new. "I do not need you to convince me so that I might carry out my task. Simply accept that I think myself mad, Faeldaer. It does not keep me from seeking my escape. You should be happy for that. I have not surrendered to despair, and that is the alternative you would offer me should I accept what you say."

And so he had not surrendered, for despite the futility of his efforts, Legolas would not give up his attempts to leave. How many days he had done this? He could not remember. All he could recall was that he failed always. Wearied, lost, discouraged, he was returned every time to the Mírnen community. And every time it was the same as he started anew. Each day he felt tired, lost, worn to his soul. Still despite his fatigue, his continued illness, his injuries, he would not remain still. And that pleased Faeldaer, or so he perceived it. Ever Faeldaer was encouraging him to seek a means to help the elves of this realm.

Yet he did not do this for Faeldaer's sake. Indeed, it was for his own purposes and those that he loved that he continued to try. In fact, he dared not stop; what lay beyond was all he had left. And though he would never say such openly, _Gimli_ was all he had left. He could not bear the thought that his friend might perish if he did not reach him. More, he felt certain that he must reach Gimli, and he must do so quickly. Certain he was that his friend had suffered terrible injury. And so he pushed himself, despite his own wounds, for without the dwarf's companionship, the promise of their joined adventures, and the solace he offered as a friend, he was not sure he had anything else for which to live.

But Gimli's demise was too painful a thing to contemplate. He drove the thought away, refusing it. He had to keep trying; that was all he would allow himself.

Yet it seemed Faeldaer was not satisfied, feeling he must somehow convince the younger elf of something more. "Forgive me, Legolas, for I know you struggle with the realization of what transpires. I only wish you to think us real so when you do escape you will find a way to rescue not just yourself but my folk as well. I feel it important that you realize you are not mad."

Legolas could have predicted such arguments from Faeldaer. Fiercely the elven leader strove again and again to bring Legolas to recognition of this world, ignoring the younger's reasoning as to why he could not. Snorting derisively, Legolas said, "Would you rather I claimed your existence a dream?"

"And if it were?" Faeldaer smiled mockingly for both knew such a thing impossible.

He frowned and looked away, out into the world and past the small community village that was growing to become truly a place he could identify as Mírnen. "We both know that elves do not dream, Faeldaer," he finally said, "At least they do not dream like this."

"No, they do not. Conceiving fanciful existence in sleep is only something Iluvatar has granted to mortals," Faeldaer replied.

"Which means I'm only left to believe myself mad," Legolas answered, feeling smug in his reply.

He saw Faeldaer stir. "Or it could be reality."

Legolas shook his head. "Nay. You will not convince me. I prefer my insanity," Legolas said walking away from the elf before turning back to face him again. "But have no fears, Faeldaer, for I believe in _you._ Can you not be satisfied that such belief means I will find a way to help you?"

He could hear the sigh of frustration coming from the elf, accompanied by a note of derision. Faeldaer came to stand beside him. He nodded toward the community and asked of the younger, "I would have you believe in them if I could."

Legolas turned his gaze then from the lands beyond and focused his attention on the elves that roamed the village in various occupations. He saw individuals and small clusters of elves, some carrying bundles of wood or sacks, others hauling buckets or tending to cooking pots or fires. They all seemed busy and oblivious to the conversation between the two elves.

Legolas shook his head in denial. "No," he said, turning his attention away from the elves and onto the outward forest once more. "No, I will not." He knew his refusal would anger Faeldaer, but he did so for reasons more his own than any Faeldaer might appreciate. Truly Legolas was afraid to do otherwise. The world was growing solid for him, as were the elves about him, He could see them, touch them, hear them and the world of Mírnen was tangible now. To acknowledge that meant he must resign himself to truly living within it. That meant surrendering and admitting he was as trapped. And that meant giving up his attempts to leave. In some ways it seemed a contradiction, Faeldaer's attempts to make Legolas accept the elves' existence while simultaneously pressing him to leave. Legolas was unsure how he could do both.

He reached down and tugged at his boots. He knew Faeldaer would want him to leave on a better note, but they had had this discussion before and while Legolas yet had hope, he would not relinquish his belief. He chose his beliefs. _I am mad_, he told himself, truly deeming it but not thinking himself so far gone that he could not put together cohesive insights.

"I am ready," he said.

"I wish you might consider otherwise -- my people that is." Faeldaer sighed, but then agreed. "Yet we all must believe as we must."

He then smiled and leaned against the rail, seeming purposely to change the subject. "What route do you pick this time? Will you ask Mithtaur to help you again?"

Legolas looked away, thinking back on the last venture he and the Ent had attempted. In that one the tree lord had tied a lead about his large oaken body for the elf to follow, as if trailing a leash behind him. Of course, the Ent walked greater strides than the elf, and so he advanced dozens of yards in front, quickly moving deeper into the wood and leaving the elf behind. When Mithtaur reached a point just beyond the river, both the Ent and the rope disappeared. Again, there had been failure.

Still, Legolas had other ideas he might pursue, but not with Mithtaur on this day. "I had thought to ask him," Legolas began, "but I have not seen him for a while... many days, I think."

"Many days... hmmm," Faeldaer repeated as if realizing this himself. He looked out toward the familiar lands as if expecting to locate the Ent in one quick glance. But he frowned when Mithtaur did not appear to his eyes any more readily than he had Legolas'. "His leave has been long."

"It matters not," Legolas said, brushing the Ent's days-long absence aside, "I have decided to go to the trees today. I am feeling flight is in order."

Faeldaer laughed at that, good humor truly seeming to lighten his mood. "You were named Greenleaf, my friend, not Greenbird. What does a wood elf know of flight?"

Legolas acknowledged his friend's mirth as he set off down the stairs and across the courtyard. Many turned to watch him go but he paid them no heed. Instead he turned to Faeldaer who he knew followed closely. "This wood elf likens himself more to that of a small winged thing, an insect mayhap-- one might name him Greenleaf as well. As such, I may not have long flight in my abilities, but I can leap from branch to branch and hence tree to tree. That may be enough for me. I would then fly past these eaves."

Faeldaer laughed as he swore. "Gods be cursed, I had thought you might go by water today."

Legolas understood why the elf might say this. Somehow it was agreed that the river was the key for Legolas' troubles, for always, in every attempt, this was the place where he grew disoriented and lost.

He came to the lake then as he mused further. As he began to cross the hidden bridge submerged just below its surface, his boots splashed over the water's skin. Such a thing made him briefly considered a water escape. Here too, he had failed and in a previous attempt to do so. Then he had floated out on the river, riding on a felled branch. But in that attempt he had come back to where he had started in the end, finding himself only wet and chilled through for all his efforts for it seemed the river was no more than a whirlpool, lapping around on itself.

"Did you make a wager on which escape I would take?" Legolas asked the trailing elf.

"I should have," Faeldaer answered. Legolas smiled then, for he knew in this land the elves occupied much of their time on harmless gambling. "I was considering a rogue choice today and I might have won. Tree flight is fitting, that. Alas that I did not place my wager."

Legolas clapped the elf on the shoulder in what was now their routine parting. "Place your stake on water tomorrow," he said in good humor.

But Faeldaer was not looking at him. Instead his eyes were fixed on something on the far side of the lake. Legolas turned to follow his gaze but did not catch what the older elf saw. Glancing back at the elf, Faeldaer saw the other had noticed his distraction and he sounded his exit. "You will forgive me, but I must-- there is something--" He took a breath to seemingly collect himself. And then with a return of composure he drew himself up and clasped Legolas about the forearm though his answer was said hastily. "I would rather you found success this time. Godspeed, my friend."

And with those rushed words he was gone, starting at a light jog but then picking up speed as he ran. Such a strange parting startled Legolas, and so rather than departing he watched the jewelsmith's movements. That is when he saw Mithtaur had returned.

He held his place as he watched their meeting. Voices rang from across the lake, and despite the distance, Legolas heard what was said. The words echoed around him like the chamber of a bell.

"We all must do our part, but why this? Why now?" Faeldaer was saying.

"I would not choose it, but it is layed out for me to do so. And so I answer as I must. He cannot go on like this," Mithtaur returned.

"He has hope yet. It is not time to give up," Faeldaer argued.

"Not knowing only hurts him more."

"You must trust me in this, I know what I am doing. I will not try to dissuade him from leaving when doing so can only help us. It is presently what he lives for. Doing otherwise will destroy him and any chance we have for freedom." Faeldaer said this. But it was Mithtaur's movements that caught Legolas' attention.

"I would do no further harm, Faeldaer. It is not fair to himhimhim. This has been a mistake," the Ent replied while carrying something in the cradle of his great arms. And Legolas felt his brow creasing as he found he to his horror that he recognized the form.

The Ent was marching to where Legolas stood. The elf lord could only race after him taking five steps for every one of the Ent's. Yet Legolas' sight was fixed on the object; he could not turn his eyes away. He gasped trying to choke back a sob. What the Ent carried was a corpse.

An elven cloak was wrapped about it, and beneath was raiment of make causing Legolas' heart to skip. The garment was dwarven in style and fashion. And worse, Legolas recognized the clothing and the ruddy mass of coarse hair made visible upon the head of the broken and shrunken figure. These things could only belong to one person. But in his mind Legolas said again, _No, no, this is not real! This is not real! _

Still, another voice was speaking and it was saying, _Accept this. It is happening. _

He felt sick. The world was spinning and he felt a stabbing pain in his leg, his head, his injuries apparently making themselves known. He heard his breath coming quick and a moan was slipping past his lips. But he was shaking his head, negating what he was seeing. "No," he said.

Still, he could not turn his eyes away, and he almost felt as if it was being held in place, forced to look. Somehow he had it in him to at least step back as the Ent bent low, carefully placing his burden at Legolas feet. Again he shook his head, "No." It was all he could say.

"Legolas, I am sorry--" Faeldaer began, reaching out to touch the elf's arm.

"No!" Legolas cried as he pulled his arm back, stumbling as he did. "This is not real!" Still, for all the rage he showed, a gaping ache was boring itself into the center of his chest while his throat choked off his breath. His eyes remained fixed on the mummified ruin but he tried to deny it. "It has not been so long as that!" he exclaimed, rationalizing the state of the decomposing form. "It has not been so long that he can be what you lay before me!" He brought his hands into tight fists as if he might strike were more said. But where he really wished to place his hands was over his heart. It felt as if it might shatter for the pain he felt there.

Concern furrowed Faeldaer's brow. "Legolas? Have you no realization...?" And then as if answering his own question, he said, "Nay, you would not. Time is yet vague for you, is it not? Ai, but I am sorry to have brought you to this."

Legolas turned an accusing eye on the elf for he read in that reply confirmation that Faeldaer believed what he saw. "You think this him? You think this Gimli? Nay, it is not!" he growled.

Faeldaer was shaking his head though, seeming almost apologetic as he said, "It may well be... you have been with us for nigh two months, my friend."

Legolas shook his head with greater vehemence. "No! It is a lie! It has not been so long!" he shouted.

"Winter descends upon the plains. It is time long enough for this to have happened," Faeldaer said, pointing to the unmoving, stiffened corpse.

"No! It has not been so long! It does not feel so long!" But in so saying, Legolas noticed for the first time the deep chill of winter brushing past his cheeks. Had it not just been the autumn months? It seemed not possible for such a time to pass. Yet...

"You have been long ill, long lost in the fog..."

"It is not real!" Legolas shouted, dropping to his knees. "It is not!" But in his heart he knew it was. He felt the scream rising in his throat as the realization struck him. He choked on it as he curled in on himself.

"We are so sorry, Legolas! We--"

But Faeldaer's next words were not heard as a keening wail forced itself from his very core. It came like a storm, fierce and raging, unrelenting. It rose from his soul and he turned his head up to the sky to cry. And with it came the full force of his anger and grief.

And then he collapsed inwardly. He had nothing now!

Faeldaer knelt down to him then, offering consolation, but Legolas pushed him aside, coming back to his legs, stumbling as he rose. He felt numb.

"This is not real, none of it," he said, pushing past him while choosing this as the greater answer to his grief. "You are all the figment of an unwell mind. This is not real!" And with that he found he could not remain still. He felt sick. He felt chilled. He had to flee this. His feet moved of a volition all their own. Without thinking, he found he ran from the clearing and into the forest surround.

He wanted to sob, to scream, but instead he let his body act.

He climbed.

The nearest maple thrummed energy and song as he mounted its branches. He listened to its sound as he climbed higher and higher, ignoring the pain that threatened to shatter him. He would not think of the husk of a body Mithtaur had delivered to him.

_Not real. Not real, _he repeated again and again as he moved. _It is only madness. Yes, yes... this is what it feels to succumb to madness!_

He focused his mind elsewhere. He realized then that he had missed the trees and came to see he had done little to communicate with them since returning his awareness to them. Perhaps it had been he had thought them unreal too. But as he sang out a response to the tree, he felt warning all around him. He ignored it, feeling reckless, unyielding and grief-stricken. Below he could hear the voices of elves calling for him. The trees seemed to sense this and there was sound among them as if urging him not to go. But he cared so little at this moment for anything but to end his horror. _All of this... it is a dream crafted by madness, _he told himself and he determined that he would ignore anything that might cause him failure this time. This time he would awaken and find himself gone from this place. He would flee.

So decided, he stifled the hurt that ripped through his chest and pressed on past the voices that would drag him back. He must escape this horror and the cost to do so did not matter.

He drew up to the tree's highest reaches though it was not a tall enough tree for him to see past the uppermost parts of the forest. _I will fly_, he said to himself. What he wanted was a fix on the land beyond. Yes, that had been his plan. With that he could mark his course, traveling through the branches, constantly looking ahead, not forced to use the near identical markings of the trees from below. On the ground all the tree's voices intermixed and sounded the same. From above, he could see past the distracting illusion of the earth and hear clearer the Song sung on the wind.

_A Song devoid of one voice... _He nearly sobbed. Nay, nay, he could not think this.

He reached out and leapt to an oak, its branches receiving him though from the tree's core it too sounded out a hesitant murmur. He choked off his misery as he whispered an assuring refrain, stepping higher into the limbs that created the trees upper perch, and pressing his toes into a splay of branches. He craned upward, past the naked branches of its winter dress until at last he could see the open sweep of the lands beyond.

He took in the shuddering newness of it, breathing in the fresh air sweeping through the treetops. Strangely, he felt invigorated by it. It almost did feel like he was gathering wind beneath him. And then remembering again his madness, he decided that he would fly now, if he could. He would fly away to a new land where all his worries, fears and memories could not plague him. He would fly to Gimli, who was his friend. And he would be grateful for whatever joys such a friendship could bring him.

_He was dear to me, _he grieved.

He sang a brief note of thanks to the oak, and then leapt to the next tree, and the next, treating them like they were bridgework leading him over a great chasm. The way was simple. Being a wood elf, Legolas knew well how to walk within their branches. He had been doing such for hundreds of years, even in the dark reaches of Mirkwood where the trees were not so hospitable.

But the trees' warnings grew stronger. Gritting his teeth and pulling himself taller, he ignored them, leaping again to the next tree and then the next. He gazed north to a point where he knew Lothlorien lay. He could not see it from this place, but he knew it to be there, and he used the rolling fields before him and the mountains to his left as the markers for his course. Lothlorien. That was his goal. Pushing aside the agony of his heart's suffering, he made up his mind that if Gimli was alive that was the place he would be. It was where Legolas would have gone were he forced to set out alone. Briefly he thought about his steps after breaking from the forest. He would hasten to the Golden Wood. And he would find his friend.

This thought distracted him enough that when he jumped to the next tree he realized the Song was changed. This tree did not send him warning; this tree was eager to have him. But its cheer was not pleasant. It had blackness at its core, and Legolas recognized the evil that penetrated it. This was one of the dark trees he had been warned of. They too existed in this forest.

He did not stay in the tree's embrace. Instead he jumped to the next one and then the one beyond. But here too he recognized the subtle shift in Song that denoted their evil. He was not even sure the trees were aware of him, but he chose not to test them, instead continuing on, feeling like he was treading among spiders webs. He was indeed in danger, and he would only be safe if he could leave without disturbing the calm of the trees.

But a leap to a wayward ash proved to be where his progress came to end. This tree was not merely a tree, but a Huorn. It had the power of movement where the other trees did not, and Legolas instantly jumped back, flying, trying to find the branches of the tree he had been in.

He landed soundly enough, but the movement of the Huorn was enough to wake the tree he stood in, and it was then he came to see that this tree was also a Huorn.

He tried again to leap, but found his foot caught in the fork of two lunging branches. He toppled sideways, his right leg bending around a branch to catch him, but the trees then released their grip and he was thrown again into an awkward spin. He was quick, his reflexes allowing him to easily grab a branch. But his stopped motion made him a target for the fury of the Huorn, and he could only watch as a mighty branch, barbed and spindly, sprung out sharp pincers to lash at him. Ringing pain struck him like a blow, generalized and unfocused. And then he was fully struck in the ribs by an alternative tree he had not noticed, and he cried out.

His grip was lost and he found himself flying toward another tree. He was grabbed in a pinching grip before he could strike and again he called out to the pain as his movement was halted. His agony was dark, like the color of dried blood. Crisscrossing boughs held him tight, squeezing him so that flat, wide-eyed pain devoured him. He felt his skin pierced and lashed by broken branches as he was passed back and forth through the reaching limbs. And then he was slammed into a trunk, his ribs again taking the impact. And he cried as he once again said to himself, _This is not real,_ though the pain he felt seemed truly such.

The world became dotted with brown and red spots, colors of late autumn leaves. A ringing sound filled his ears. In the distance he could hear the trees crying out distress and he heard a horn blast as if it sounded in his head. In the spinning world, he saw Mithtaur coming, yelling out admonishments though they seemed to do no good. The trees continued to toss him, grope him, strike him, as if they had no obeisance to an Ent or elf. He felt his body hang limply though with each clubbing he gasped in pain. And then he fell to the ground and he could smell the mucky ground almost like a flavor. Blood was in his mouth, and he could see it on his hands and through the tears in his clothes. His heart was beating wildly, but even that sound turned into a din of ringing surcease in his ears. He was losing consciousness.

And then he was scooped up, and he knew it was Mithtaur who had him. He felt heavy feet running, and he could hear the Ent crying out in fear, worried for his plight. "He should not have done this. He should not have done this. He should not."

But he paid no attention to the words. Legolas truly no longer cared. The pain was horrible, but he ignored it, gazing instead up to the sky and what little of it he could now see through the bramble of dead growth. He thought again of flight but he knew he had no wings. The way out was barred to him, done so by the trees with their crisscrossing arms and pincer-like grips. The irony might have made him laugh were the circumstances different, but instead he savored his mirthless rancor for what he knew would now come and he let the pain leech his strength.

It had been his last attempt to leave -- he knew this in his heart -- and he had failed. There was nothing else for him but to accept his plight. He could not leave. Never. He was as trapped as Faeldaer and all of the Mírnen elves. He was trapped forever and he found his spirit devoured by that knowledge. He would surrender to it. He had nothing left to live for.

**TBC**


	42. Reason for Being

**AN:** A slower chapter here, but some important revelations. From the reviews I see many of you are confused by the strange chronology in which this story is told. Please believe that I have my reasons for telling this tale in the order that I do. I would ask that you surrender, let it happen... all will be well in the end...

And thank you everyone who reviewed. As always, you made this all worth the effort!

**Dark Forest  
**_**By Anarithilien**_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-One: Reason for Being**_

It was a few days later that Legolas found the strength to rise from his healing bed to attend to his friend's remains. He was quite ill, his body broken and every step he took was a stab of pain. The world spun as he rose, but he ignored the hurts of his body. He could do that for a day. It was the thought of his friend and what the dwarf had endured in the end that spurred his resolve. He would put Gimli's body to proper rest if it was the last thing he did.

It was from Mithtaur that he had learned the dwarf had been found on the fields of the Celebrant, surrounded by the carcasses of dead orcs. What was more, the ground had been littered with weapons of elven make, samples of which Mithtaur procured and showed to the elf. They bore the sigil of Lothlorien realm. Mysteriously, there were weapons from Mirkwood as well, but Legolas could not puzzle out a reason for their being there. He guessed that a host from the Golden Wood might have been sought by the dwarf, but he could not imagine any from his own realm seeking him.

"_Mere suggestion can be powerful in altering what one sees in their mind._ I grow confused at times, we all may agree. Yet I know what I saw, or in this particular case, what I did not see; it was not in my mind. There were no elven bodies among those weapons. I do not understand what it means for I have no cause to promote. I am confused, Master Elf. Can you reason it?" Mithtaur had said, but Legolas had less difficulty explaining this than in finding weapons to begin with. Every elfling from the time he could sit a lap for the telling of tales knew the lore of Eru's making of the Firstborn; they were composed of the earth, and so it was supposed then in their passing they returned to it. And though just a tale, Legolas found it true enough, for in battle and its aftermath, he had seen that elven bodies did not remain long when the body was injured beyond repair and the faer became unhoused. Because of that, it did not surprise him that there were no elf bodies to be found among the discarded weapons and orcish remains. They would have faded to ash and blown away on the wind within weeks of their passing.

But Legolas did not spend much time thinking of the elves that died. He did not know who was among them and allowing his mind to go there only distracted him and made him wonder. It was Gimli where he wanted to focus his thoughts.

The dwarf died in battle. That was a good thing in Legolas' mind. In fact, that knowledge was the only thing that modestly lightened the great weight of Legolas' guilt. Gimli's death had been a noble one, a warrior's death. It was how Gimli would have wanted to part this world. It would be what Legolas would want as well.

The grave was a shallow one. The earth on the ledge was not conducive as a burial plot, and Legolas fought against the wisdom of Faeldaer, who negated it. But the stones there made Legolas feel it was what Gimli would have chosen, and so he used them to bury his friend, carefully laying them atop the corpse once he had made the ledge secure.

After that he returned to his bed and waited for his own death. He had no inclination to be made well, for in his mind there seemed little point to being. Heretofore, the dwarf had been his tether to finding happiness and to beginning life anew, and it both saddened him and gladdened his heart to know he had befriended someone who could do that.

Legolas thought on the stubborn and stalwart ways of the dwarf, and despite the heavy pain he bore, he smiled. Gimli had been a true friend. Legolas' only regret was that it had taken him as long as it had to recognize the unique qualities that made him such. For example, the dwarf had been the only one in the Fellowship to press him for facts of his life. Legolas thought long on that. It was to Gimli that he had revealed his princely status first, and it was to Gimli that he had revealed his mother's death and betrayal through his father. The others of the Quest likely would have never known anything of him had the Dwarf not been among them to sleuth facts out. Men, Wizard, and Hobbits all seemed to accept Legolas' evasiveness as typically that of all elves. Even Aragorn, who had been raised and lived among elves, did not query deeply into his private matters -- Legolas supposed that was out of respect. Mithrandir, who knew elves very well, did not press him either, though in his case it was likely he felt it better _not_ to know (the wizard _did_ have to deal with Thranduil on occasion). But Boromir and the Hobbits seemed to believe his vague replies to be the natural answers of all elves.

But Gimli was loath to accept that. Outwardly he let it pass, commenting wryly under his breath about elven ways. Yet in their private moments he doggedly pursued the truth, revealing parts of himself so that Legolas was obliged to do the same. Eventually he unearthed the full truth of Legolas, and Legolas would ever be grateful for that. In his time Gimli had done much to simultaneously amuse and challenge him and that was a thing unheard of for Legolas.

The dwarf's absence was keenly felt. It grew evident.

Despair took control of Legolas' will and he felt his spirit lessening. The mire of his feelings weighed on him, and he did not hesitate to take them into his pain. He knew what it meant to do so and he did not care. He would give in to his melancholy. He would fade.

The days progressed, and he lapsed into despondency that pushed him more and more into listless indifference. He chose to dream of gory battle and misery and death; being in control of his dreams, he thought these might feed his surrender. He wanted to remember horrors that might make him wish for an end.

Further, he did nothing for himself. He did not even speak. And though from time to time his mind would wander from his inner sanctum to the world around him in vague curiosity, he would rein it back as soon as he realized it. Thus the words of the elves tending him would fall meaningless around him.

"You will not speak. That is as you choose it. I cannot alter you, yet I find I must do as I must. Fair warning, my friend, but I will try to keep you from fading." Faeldaer said, reaching out to touch him. But he withdrew when Legolas pulled away.

And so the younger elf sank deeper into the bed and willed death to his body. He did so with some success for his agonies were accentuated. Everything ached. His head felt thick with pain and his stomach churned in slow nausea aided by his choice to refuse nourishment. His mind settled on Gimli's death, and he reveled in it all.

But he knew there was something that could keep him from dying, and this is where Faeldaer's warning worried him. It was a truth that all elves knew: he would live so long as he _felt_.

In their physical bearing elves were very strong and they could recover from ills quickly. They did not sicken from disease, and they lived as immortals. But their spirits were complex, and many saw the great melancholy they felt as a sickness all its own, for it was true that elves lamented deeply. Ultimately this was their flaw and in describing it, the answer was clear: simply, they felt _too much_. They succumbed easily to melancholy, to despair. At the same time, they could turn their minds to frivolity and mischievous merriment. They were creatures of emotion, bodily perfect but distracted by their feelings.

And this is what troubled Legolas and made Faeldaer's threat real.

For an elf, whether his emotions were dark or light, so long as he f_elt_, dying was not so simple as willing the thing to happen. History showed that elves managed to live through horrible traumas, losing limbs, kingdoms, loved ones, more... and yet they survived. Some even lived through traumas great enough to mold them into orcs, or so legend told it. And so just giving up hope was not enough. To die, Legolas knew, he must give up feeling, and that was no small task, for there was a feeling buried in him that he was only now coming to realize. It was anger.

"Why am I here, Mithtaur?" he asked in a whispered voice, finally conceding to ask just this. He was laid on a terrace couch, wrapped thickly in blankets, sipping water but nothing else. He had been brought there despite his complacency. He would have rather been left to his room and bed, but Faeldaer ordered him brought to the outdoors, and in his effort to feel nothing, he had not fought. Instead he was forced to try and ignore everything around him. But to block all out was nearly impossible and it grated on him to the point where he could not hold his tongue. The Ent was singing to him and his mind kept drifting with the music. He would try to stop it in his own way if he could, even if that meant speaking briefly.

"You are here because Faeldaer asked that it be so," the Ent said matter of factly, reminding Legolas of the similar answer he had received from Mithtaur when he had made his first attempt to leave. Like then, he found the reply given to be crafted from a misunderstanding of the question. He should have been clearer in asking it, for he simply wanted to know why he was on this particular terrace and why the Ent could not deliver him back to his room.

He shifted his cramping muscles and let his mood progress to one darker. The answer the Ent gave was obvious. Of course Faeldaer had asked that he be on the terrace; Faeldaer always seemed to override Legolas' wishes when he had something he felt was for the greater good. The elf did not wish Legolas to die. He would do what he must to keep that from happening. And at that moment it meant being on the terrace. It was all quite apparent. Legolas might have laughed at the simple reply had he the energy or willingness to do so. He did not.

He thought to rephrase the question in order to manipulate the Ent to at least leave him alone, but he did not truly wish to talk and if he must he would do so with economic efficiency. He considered again the words said. And then a thought occurred to him.

Another possibility existed for the Ent's answer.

A prickly heat started to build in his limbs as a question formed in his mind. It built in crescendo force and it had become alive and important before he could quell it. And even as he said the words, he realized for this one question asked, a dozen more formed. He could not keep himself contained. "What do you mean?" he asked softly, slowly. He was shivering beneath the cover of his blankets as he said this though he felt no chill.

"Faeldaer asked that you be brought here and so it has been done."

Legolas found his breath shortening and his throat suddenly felt dry. He took a sip of his water and his hands visibly shook as he raised the glass. Again, he could not keep the question back. "But ... do you speak only of today?"

"Todaytodaytoday? There is more than today. He asked that you come here and I made it so," the Ent answered bluntly.

Legolas put the drink aside, afraid he might drop the cup, so sudden was his quaking. His head was pounding and he furrowed his brow in confusion. He knew his mind was muddled, but he also understood a new depth in these replies. His question had not been answered as he had asked it, but he realized it need not be. He shook his head, willing the thoughts that were creeping into his mind away. He did not want this!

He told himself it was possible that Mithtaur was as mad as had been previously decided; his replies were naturally skewed. But another voice in his mind told him the truth lay in the words of the tree lord and that his insanity did not really exist. It was an illusion.

He tried again. "By _here_, now, you speak of my being _in Mírnen_, as a general statement?" he asked, his voice gaining strength though a part of him wished it yet weak. "When you say I am _here_ because Faeldaer wished it be so, you are not speaking of my being _here_ on this terrace?"

"You speak like an Ent, Master Elf, and I do fancy that," Mithtaur answered, but again he had not answered the question posed him.

"You do not speak of this terrace?" Legolas asked, pressing the subject and seeing nothing amusing in the way he was being ignored.

"Hoomhoomhoom," the Ent chuckled seeming oblivious to what was being asked or revealed, and Legolas felt the decking beneath him vibrate with his laughter. He reconsidered, thinking then that the Ent was perhaps mad, but if he was, he still spoke full truths in his twisted replies. "Why would I talk of bringing you to the terrace? You are here. You have been here. I had no part in that," Mithtaur answered with a blithe laugh.

"And when we made our first attempt at escape, you said then it was because Faeldaer asked it be so. Did you mean _then_ that Faeldaer wished I be brought to Mírnen?" he pursued.

"Yes, of courseofcourseofcourse. My answer was the same as nothing has changed."

Legolas took another breath. He needed to be clear on this. "Faeldaer ordered you to bring me to Mírnen?" he supplied.

"Faeldaer did not say that I should bring you, not really, not bring you as one might do in carrying you. No, he said nothing of that, though in the end that is what I did do. I will apologize again for that, for my thoughts went astray and I struck you, thinking you were _Him_ -- that is, the Dark Lord."

"What then was your mission if it was not to bring me?" Legolas pushed on, ignoring the diverted path of his answer.

"It was my mission to deliver Faeldaer's message to you. And so I did and so you came. It was as he askedaskedasked," Mithtaur replied seeming to find nothing wrong in these answers.

Legolas closed his eyes, finding frenetic energy renewing him despite his greatest wishes. Anger rode the wave of his ire and he found his next words choked for the great emotion he felt. "What message was it that you delivered?"

"The message I delivered was not so much a message in words but the one I relayed to you in dream," Mithtaur said.

"And you did that because Faeldaer asked you to do so?" Legolas asked as his temper rose.

"Yesyesyes," the Ent answered innocently, seeming not to see anything wrong in this reply. "He wanted you to know he was here."

Legolas brought a hand to his brow, feeling suddenly dizzy and ill. If what he was hearing was true, his presence in Mírnen was no accident, no innocent trespass into a cursed event; he was there because it was a thing planned. He was there because Faeldaer had manipulated him into coming.

He could not ignore what had been said though he knew obtaining answers would cost him; he was risking his apathy, but anger was moving him and he could not relinquish it. His mind would not settle.

He pushed the blankets aside, pulling himself upright. He dropped his legs over the side of the bed and shakily rose. "I must see him," he said.

"Let me help you," Mithtaur said, nearing the deck and reaching a hand over it in aid.

Legolas took a step forward, his intent to find the elf. But that one small movement was enough to tell him that he was immensely weak and he would not get any further than the next few feet. Resigned, he turned to Mithtaur, "Bring him to me."

"You wish me to retrieve Faeldaer?"

Legolas could maintain his composure no more. "Bring him to me!" he railed.

The Ent did not question him again. Legolas was left alone and he felt the anger burning his throat and his eyes. He was shaking with it and the minutes he waited only fed his ire as a picture formed in his mind as to how great the manipulation had been to draw him to Mírnen.

He sat on the edge of the bed as Faeldaer appeared. "Legolas? Was there something...?"

Legolas did not look at the elf. He could see what was coming and he tried to control his emotions so they might come at a minimal price, clinging still to the notion that he might yet decline any feeling once he let this go. But he was shaking and he could not stop that.

"Mithtaur has upset you somehow. You must dismiss him. He knows not what he says," Faeldaer continued, clearly seeing Legolas' distress.

"I think he speaks truer than any other here," the young elf returned, his words sounding clipped. But his rage was strange to him. He was feeling infinitely wearied by it, as if he could fall into a deep sleep for the enormity of it. He felt unbalanced and gripped his hands into the sheets to remain aright.

Faeldaer seemed not to notice how he wavered in this. "Do not become mired in it; he only means you well."

Legolas closed his eyes and sighed. He inhaled deeply, thinking long before deciding what he must say. "You had me brought here," he finally said. He opened his eyes and sought Faeldaer out.

The elf said nothing in answer and for a moment Legolas wondered if he had been heard. "Do you deny it?" he finally asked, anger lacing through the volume of his question.

"Mithtaur is not aware of what he says. You should pay no attention to his words," Faeldaer said at last.

Legolas felt his stomach knot as his fury emerged in a smoldering roar. "It is not his words I am paying heed to, it is yours!"

"You are upset. You should rest," the other said.

But the reply only served to urge Legolas on. "Rest? Is that not is the last thing you want of me?! Your goal has been to rile me, to get me to do anything but rest so that my emotions might drive me to live. Why that would be I cannot guess, but regardless, it has been your goal!"

Faeldaer stifled a laugh, seeming bemused by the younger elf's rage. "Of course I would want you to live, Legolas. Why would I not?"

"When I first awoke, you said you had Mithtaur bring me here. I recall it now though it was vague to me for a time. Yet I do recall. You wanted me here so I might find an escape for you. That has been your intent all along!" Legolas said.

Faeldaer's smile faded and his voice grew somber. "I have never denied it. Even for elves, our time in Mírnen has been long. We have been prisoners here against our will. We would experience the outside world again if we could. Can you begrudge us that?"

Legolas replied in a tense voice, "You ...lured ...me! You ... manipulated me! I begrudge that!"

"I did what I had to to find freedom. I regret nothing in that," the older elf lord replied.

"Your desire to be free brought about the death of my friend!" Legolas cried, and for a moment tears stung his eyes.

"We could not know that would be the result," Faeldaer shrugged weakly.

"You will tell me how you did this," Legolas growled. Agitation was ruling and his shaking hands curled deeper into the bed linens.

The other elf shrugged again, smiling darkly this time. "You give us credit for greater powers than we possess. I speak the truth when I say we could not know you would actually enter our realm. All we had hoped was that you might find evidence yet that we were here and that would give you reason to ask more of us, to seek aid through your greater elf lords. There is the Maia you have told me came to Arda in this last age. Mithrandir. Combined, I think Celeborn, Galadriel, and Mithrandir could free us."

"You do not know this!"

"I had to try."

"You found a means to draw me here. How did you know my vulnerabilities?" Legolas asked, coming to his feet.

"It was not just you. We sought Gimli too. We thought he might have interest in Narvi."

"My question remains: how did you know of us?" the younger elf demanded.

"Mithtaur has the freedom to come and go. He was present at the Moot. He learned of your concerns while there. This is not a matter of great secrecy, Thranduilion," Faeldaer taunted.

Legolas felt his face flush as he took a step forward in threat. "You know enough of my concerns to discern my resentment! You will not call me by that name!"

The elder smiled but did not back away. "As you wish it."

Legolas seethed with his fury. "And now that you have me ensnared, what is my plight to be?" he asked. "What will become of me now that I cannot leave?"

"That is for you to decide," Faeldaer replied calmly.

"Not for me! Not for me! For if I had say I would diminish fully. But you will not have it, will you? Even now you manipulate me into feeling. Oh, that I hate you and what you have brought me to!"

"I did warn you I would not let you flee so easily."

Legolas raged once more. "Nothing is left to me to decide. You would control all aspects of me. Ai, were I to say what it is that I would be, my friend would be with me and my life would have gone on as I intended," the younger elf snarled.

Faeldaer laughed cruelly this time. "As you intended? As you intended?! You had no intentions, young Legolas! You floundered restlessly before coming here!"

"You cannot know that. I have spoken nothing of it to you. Do I bear witness to more of your spying ways? What else do you know of me?" Legolas cried.

"I know more of you than you might like, but I would not abuse that knowledge," Faeldaer said, the laughter suddenly gone and his voice growing sober again.

"I have no evidence of that. Everything I have learned of you tells me I know nothing of your abuses except that you would act for your benefit first."

"I am capable of softening, my friend," the elder said. His face relaxed into a look of sympathy. His brow knitted in concern and his gold-hued eyes grew tender.

Legolas pushed him away. "You are no friend to me. You have taken advantage of my ignorance. You would have me yet wandering in the maze of your endless and brutal forests."

Faeldaer seemed unfazed by his shove. "Nay, Legolas, I would have you yet holding on to hope!"

Legolas felt his face drain of color as his breath left him. He squeezed his eyes shut as weakness overtook him again. He felt spent suddenly and the feeling of fatigue was great once more. "My hope has died," he whispered.

Faeldaer's voice softened, and he seemed to take on the kindness he had shown in Legolas' recuperative days. "We did not mean for Gimli to die. We mourn as you do." He reached a hand out to Legolas but then pulled it away as the younger flinched at his nearness.

"You have left me little to cling to," Legolas said, sinking once more to the bed. "Up until now, my fate has been a delicate thing. I see nothing that makes me wish to remain. Were I in the outer world, there might yet be reason. But now..."

"You think you will pass from a broken heart but I would rather it were not so," Faeldaer said. There was a gentle note to his voice.

Legolas shook his head. "I am nothing now."

But Faeldaer would not accept that. He said, "Look about you before making such a hasty decision. Do you think you are the only one here to have suffered hardship and loss? Everyone in Mírnen has lost their hold to the outside world. It is not just you who lives this way."

"You have each other still."

"You could have us as well," Faeldaer countered.

The younger shook his head. "It is not unheard for an elf to go this way on to Mandos' care," Legolas said, refusing the other's argument. "Let me go."

"And it is not unheard for an elf to find reason to live. And you do have reason and purpose, Legolas. I beg that you think of that."

Legolas feebly pulled the covers around him. He had nothing more to say.

"You have yet passions in you, Legolas Thranduilion. You have yet the fever of life," Faeldaer sang out. "No one is without purpose. It may be you will discover something new of yourself here."

But Legolas closed his eyes. He was done. He had expressed his anger, and he could either hold to it or he could surrender completely and relinquish his life. If he maintained his place in this world, he knew his anger would rule him. He was not sure he had it in him to do such for he did not wish to feel ire any more. He had lived so much of his life in anger and hurt. "I wish to surrender," he said after a minute's pause.

"Should you not first try to live before deciding you have no reason to?"

"You have inflamed me enough," Legolas sighed. "I do not doubt this conversation was purposeful on your part. You wished me to be enraged, and I was. I know not if I have it in me to forgive you for all you have done to me. I hold you to blame for my friend's death, and I will not forget that. I shall not underestimate you again. But that is all that I can feel now. And even that I wish to relinquish. Please leave me be."

"No, not yet Legolas, for there are positive advantages to life. There are good things that can be wrought in being here in Mírnen. What if I was to show you one? What if I was to show you one that could prove your life is the better for being here? If I did, would you consider life?"

"There is nothing better here," Legolas said in a tired voice. He felt infinitely wearied and he no longer wished to speak with Faeldaer.

"Let us make a wager on it. Let us wager now that there is something that appeases your ache and that you are bettered as you had not been in the outer world," Faeldaer bargained.

"Please, Faeldaer, let me be," Legolas murmured though he could see Faeldaer was not willing to let go.

"But if there was," the other urged eagerly, "If there was, might you not consider living?"

"Why are you doing this?" Legolas asked, his voice gone weak.

"I believe in destiny. I believe there is a reason you became ensnared in the curse of this place, and that if you cannot help us escape then you are here to help us live," Faeldaer answered.

Legolas sighed. He knew this argument. He had told it to himself many times before. Painfully, it was exactly why he had continued to live in his father's realm all those years. There, while he was denied what he desired, he had found purpose in remaining. He had been a help in both the field and in the court. He had been useful whether he was truly happy, and in being an aide, he had found happiness, modest though it was.

He sighed in resignation as he said, "Fine then. I will take your wager. What is it you would say makes this place better than the outer world?"

Faeldaer smiled. "Think now," he said knowingly. "Is there not something missing from your melancholy that existed in the greater world?"

The Mirkwood elf looked to the jewelsmith in confusion. He was unclear as to what the other was asking.

"Is there voice that is missing from your mind? Something that heretofore plagued you? A cry? A longing?" he prodded.

Legolas pressed to sit, his eyes growing large as realization came to him. "The sea," he whispered. He had not noticed its absence until this moment.

"This place masks it," Faeldaer explained.

And it did! Legolas' hands compulsively reached to his heart, searching for the ache that lay heavy there always since hearing the cry of the gull. But it was absent. Gone. And he was lighter for it. "I had not recognized it gone," Legolas whispered in shock.

"Does that not give you reason to find hope? It is one thing that had caused you misery in the past, was it not?"

"It is gone," was all Legolas could find to say in answer.

"And so gone, can you not look to other things gone from your worries as well?" Faeldaer asked.

Legolas breathed a whispered sob. It was true; the sea-longing had been a plague to him and distracted him from clear thought and action. He saw now that he had gone for some time without hearing its call. How had he not noticed? He had been so distracted by all his other miseries, this one had slipped past him. Still, the removed ache eased him in some modest way, and he had to be grateful for that. Had he been mired in that as well as all his other heartaches, he might never have recovered enough to even rise from his bed even once.

Still he was unsure what to think. To live. To die. Sea-longing or not, he was still bereft of all he had known. After all he had endured in the short frame of his life could he survive this too? Was there a limit to an elf's agony?

"Think on it, Legolas. This could be a new beginning for you," Faeldaer added.

And for the first time since arriving there, Legolas did consider it. It would be a hard transition, moving from despair into an optimistic renewal. But even the words carried hope. They lifted him somehow. A new beginning. Was that not the hope he had been seeking before all his newest troubles had begun? Had he not been about to embark on a new life before. Then, a fresh start had been appealing. It could be again.

He closed his eyes once more. It was a burden, these thoughts. He had been so sure his will would allow him to die just a short while ago. Now he was being offered a new chance at life. He supposed such opportunities had always been there, but now he truly had no choice in the matter; he would either start anew or he would die. Should he reconsider dying? He could not decide such in a moment. He needed time to think. Of course, it was a thing he had much of.

**TBC**


	43. Forward and Back

**Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Two: Forward and Back**_

Legolas dropped the field-dressed carcass onto the worktable before reaching for the water jug. Heated by the exertion of carrying the dead weight this last mile as well as by the growing warmth of the day, he dipped the ladle into it and drew the cool drink to his lips, sighing in satisfaction as his thirst was quenched and his heat mildly withdrawn. Behind him, his companions did likewise, shrugging the weight of the dead animals from their shoulders and handing over their waterskins as they in turn took their drinks. Legolas glanced at the five herd animals that lay upon the stone table. The cooks smiled at the elves, pleased with the provisions the hunters had delivered.

"Thank you, Legolas," Marinen said as she stepped forward to begin the work of butchering.

The Mirkwood elf bowed his head and then turned to his fellow hunters. These weekly excursions were doing much to improve their skills as well as their confidence; it showed in their faces and he smiled at the boastful smirks and shoves they offered one another when the cooks remarked at the size and weight of the animals. Indeed, they were proud of their achievements, and Legolas could readily be given credit for their progress. It was a step forward for all of them.

When he had first taken up the task, Legolas had been astounded to learn what poor marksmen he was living with. They rarely brought meat to the table and it was then that it occurred to him that, when he finally chose to accept food, he had seen little of it on his plate. Legolas had thought they were just being careful not to over-hunt the forest, but he soon realized there was ample sustenance should they want it; the hunters just did not know how to go about getting food.

He spent a secreted day of watching to learn of their weaknesses and strengths. Unfortunately, though they were elegant in their known skills, in this art they had more weaknesses than strengths. Not only did they do poorly in strategizing a hunt, but their shooting ability was dismal. After all these many years of being on their own, Legolas would have thought their abilities would be honed to clean efficiency. But he came to see that the hunting and tracking skills he took so much for granted in himself had come as a result of the life he had lived before. Mirkwood was diverse and he had learned from many great woodsmen in his time. These elves had not lived a wide life and they had no teachers to show them how to flush out a kill. They were fine craftsmen by trade but hunting did not come naturally to them.

And so he took it upon himself to be their teacher. He showed them that instead of waiting within the blind for creatures to wander past, they were better served to seek the animals out -- to find the herd. And so he showed them how to do this and how in turn they were thinning the weaker deer from the herd, making it so the animals would not hunger in the winter months when food was scarce. Further, he showed them how to follow the markings and footprints the animals left behind and to know what was newly made and what was not. And he showed them how to shoot -- really shoot -- so that when they did track live quarry, they would not miss their mark and they could make the end quick and painless. So he helped them to perfect their weapons and to strengthen their aim. It was not just deer that they hunted either. Turkey, geese, quail and rabbit also made it into their sites.

And here too, Legolas found new reason for surprise, only this time not for the men but the forest. When he and the others set out to hunt, they could negotiate the forest easily, finding landmarks and elements that always led them home. The forest was vast and open to them in this. Yet when they set out to move past these points and to venture away with the intent of finding the end to the wood and reaching out to an escape, the forest then seemed a maze of confusion. Legolas likened it to Melian's spell over Doriath -- only in that case none could enter while here none could leave.

But he put that aside, coming to accept this limitation. The forest was vast, and so long as creatures lived in the forest that they might hunt, the elves could survive.

Legolas showed the elves under his tutelage how to clean their kill. He also was considerate of what they took of nature's bounty. Isolated as they were, he knew that if they over-hunted and took more than they should, there was nowhere for them to trade in goods when hunting grew thin. It was a delicate balance they sought, but Legolas understood it well. In Mirkwood, he had managed like circumstances when he had served as captain to the soldiers in the southern realm, for then too they had to live independent of the settlements far, far to the north.

Even still, they were providing more meat to the cooks than had been done before and the additional stock was much appreciated. Legolas had to think that the way they managed before, without his help, was through frugality and spare means. It was a good thing elves could survive on little, for he perceived that is what they had prior to his involvement.

Legolas dismissed himself from the grouping and decided to retire to his room. A nagging pain in his leg had been taunting him of late, and he thought he might bathe as a way to tend it. It was nothing great, a mere ache, but it was reoccurring and he thought perhaps staying off of it for a time might aid it. As he started past the gardens an elf maid noticed him and called out his name. "Legolas! Legolas! A moment of your time please!"

Legolas stopped and smiled at the pretty elf. "Good day to you," he said, forgetting for a moment her name, though he could recall everything she had ever told him of her life. "How do you fare?" he asked, buying extra moments by posing the question. This, in addition to the ache in his leg, was something Legolas had noticed was problematic to him in Mírnen -- small details sometimes slipped away. He had the same problem when trying to write a page or calculate numbers. He could only deduce it was due to one of the numerous injuries he had taken to the head in his attempts to flee Mírnen and the healers had assured him in time it would heal and he would be bettered.

"I am well, as is Gavilir," she said. _Gavilir. Her husband. The tanner...fine leather work. _Which meant her name was ... _Lendelil_.

"What service can I do for you, Lendelil?" he asked pleased that he managed the recollection.

She smiled shyly, and he suspected he knew her query. "I just wondered if I might look upon the seedlings?"

With a smile in his eyes, Legolas dropped his chin and chastised her. "I have told you before that you may look upon them any time you like." Ever since Legolas had begun cultivating seeds from plants he found in the far reaches of the forest, she had taken an interest in seeing them blossom into fully formed specimens in the gardens she managed.

"Oh, I could not intrude on your private space," she said, blushing.

Legolas laughed. "It is not like I bed with them, Lady. They remain on the terrace outside my room. Anyone might visit them there."

"I know. But it is not my place to trespass into that space. Even on your terrace out in the open I respect your privacy. I dare not go without invite."

Legolas smiled, knowing he would never change her. Mírnen was a small community and the nearness of all made privacy a cherished commodity. "How does the wheat bed grow?" Legolas asked. He was far more interested in the wheat endeavor that they had been working on together than the seedlings. Through the many years, the elves had tried to grow wheat but with limited success. They did not have enough cleared ground or sun for a sizable harvest, and the seeds were becoming more and more limited, the crop dying out. It was Legolas' hope they could start anew. He already had Mithtaur gently pressing an acre of trees to move to another location and would do the same to gain more in time. And when the field was open, he had intent of growing the wheat there. With Lendelil's help he was cultivating more seeds in the garden beds. In a year or two he expected he would have enough seeds to garner a real harvest.

"You will have your crop," Lendelil replied as they started the climb to his terrace.

"And the rice?" Legolas asked.

The pretty maid blushed, "I feel the fool for not recognizing those plants already growing amongst us. You knew them when we did not."

"I grew up in a woodland home while you were raised in a city. I know well the plants that grow in the marshes. Wild rice is common to me," he replied by giving her excuse.

"We look forward to the bounty it will offer," Lendelil said, but her eyes were on the seedlings as they mounted the last steps.

He had built several racks that were divided among a dozen or so plants. Gently they were being raised, sheltered by the shade of the trees yet warmed for several hours of the day by the sun's rays dappling and caressing them. Almost uniformly the plants grew, and the hardy growth was beginning to form on the short shafts.

Lendelil marveled with a gasp at their progress while Legolas stepped away, going to the rain bin to take yet another drink and to pour some of the water over his head to cool himself. And once done, he dipped a watering tin into the barrel so that he might feed the plants he had placed in planters and strung from the trees. These were not cultivars, but common plants, yet Legolas enjoyed being surrounded by the greenery and the cool calm they brought.

They stood on the terrace outside Legolas' room and he turned about to inspect his space. He had been with the elves seven months and though his room remained spare, it was starting to take on his personality and tastes. He had been gifted with several pieces by the artisans and he used them for decoration. Still, he had found items in the wilds that were as beautiful as those crafted by the elves and he smiled as he fingered them. A bird's nest sat on one of the tables. A stone that had been hollowed out by the current of the river sat in a corner by the door. A piece of intricately twisted wood that had been bleached by the sun and was slowly becoming polished from Legolas' constant handling was placed near his bed. And of course, Gimli's axe, retrieved from the river, had been mounted to a wall inside his room.

He returned to the planters, fingering them. These pieces of pottery were commonplace in the community. "I think I might grow herbs in these planters in the next planting season."

"A good idea," Lendelil replied though she was still admiring the seedlings, not noticing the plants on which he was focused.

He felt the cool water dripping from the long green leaves of the potted plants and remembered a time when the dew droplets on grass stirred his heart for the sea. A pang stirred him, and he closed his eyes, thinking sadly upon his passed friend. It pained him still and he thought then that though he was bodily whole he would never be healed in spirit this anguish.

"Some flowering plants would be attractive," a male voice said from behind them, and Legolas wheeled about, startled by the intrusion, to see Faeldaer standing at the top of the stairs.

The elf's unannounced appearance was not pleasing. Where Lendelil would not come into Legolas' space without an invitation, Faeldaer it seemed intruded without thought. But Legolas pushed past his irritation saying, "I had thought to grow herbs to be of benefit to the healers."

"You are eager to aid, but healing herbs are plentiful already," Faeldaer dismissed. "Consider blooming flowers instead. Beauty is always appreciated in this realm."

"Then perhaps _you _should grow flowers," Legolas countered while his belly knotted in reaction to the elven leader. Ever since discerning that Faeldaer had ordered him brought to Mírnen, Legolas had been altogether avoiding the elf lord. That was no small feat in a community of Mírnen's meager size.

"I could add more blooming plants to the garden if you think we need them," Lendelil offered, trying to appease them both. But then she dipped her chin as if realizing she was intruding where she should not. "If you will excuse me..." But before leaving she glanced over her shoulder at Legolas, indicating the plants. "These will be ready to transfer to the beds in another week."

"Thank you," Legolas said as she parted, noticing the brightening sun and its heat before turning once more to Faeldaer.

"You help Lendelil in the garden?" the elder asked. "That pleases me."

"Seed pots," Legolas nodded toward the plants she'd admired. "I was not even sure they would grow. But now that they do, we will see if they might survive in these climes. They are forest plants really, adapted to live in the wilder environs."

"They seem to thrive thus far," the elf lord said, but the allusion in his voice spoke not of the plants.

The younger was in no mood for the conversation that teetered on the hint of these words. In Legolas' mind he lived, he survived his melancholy, but that was all. He turned to Faeldaer. "Thank you. I will consider what you offer." He inclined his head toward the stairs then, his meaning clear in the small gesture.

"I would speak with you first," Faeldaer said, ignoring his directed gaze.

Pursing his lips, Legolas felt his heat rising. He could think only of being free of the other's company. The rift between them had not been repaired, and he was eager to be done. "Speak then," he urged.

Faeldaer frowned, clearly reading the animosity in that reply. "Your actions trouble me."

"My actions?" Legolas near laughed.

Faeldaer sighed, seeming to regret what he must say. "I would have you report to me rather than acting solely to please yourself."

There was no prelude to these words and the measure of them riled Legolas. He could not think of anything he had done that required such commentary. "I know not of what you speak. Have my actions been harmful to the people of Mírnen?" he asked.

"They have not," Faeldaer answered. "But that is not the point."

"If that is not the point then what is?" The volume in Legolas' voice rose slightly.

"As this community's leader I must know what transpires here. It is hard to address concerns when I am kept uninformed," the elder answered looking into Legolas' eyes. The sun shone brightly then, piercing through the branches above, almost blinding the younger elf. He felt the heat of it burning his skin. The elf lord in turn looked very stern in that blaze, his coppery hair glowing, and Legolas took a step back, trying to find some relief from the fiery visage.

He walked again to the water barrel and once more drank deeply from the cool. It did not help. His temper fueled the flames. As he lowered his hand, he noted that it shook. Emotionally he could not be quieted.

"What concerns do you speak of?" Legolas asked, gripping either side of the container so as to feel its subtle chill and hoping that somehow that temperature would imbue his mood.

"Mithtaur has spoken to me recently about some resistance he is getting from the trees about fields you intend to till. I was at a loss as to how to resolve this issue without having the details to fall upon."

"Mithtaur should have spoken to me. There was no need to involve you. I could have spoken to the trees myself," Legolas dismissed.

"And what is it you would say? That you intend to displace them?" Faeldaer queried, his voice clearly growing harder.

"It appears you know more than you proclaim," Legolas commented dryly. But then he swallowed his argument and instead said in his own defense, "Nay, I do not mean to displace them, though I do ask those capable of it if they might relocate a few hundred yards further away. Those unable or unwilling will be excused and we will find a way to work around them. But ultimately the fields will do good as they will bring fresh crops and nature in the guise of new life into the settlement. It will renew the trees, I think, giving them something young and yearning to look after. And what I ask is still some years off; there is time to plan around whatever comes."

Faeldaer cocked his head to one side. "I should still be told," he said. "Changes to the community should be discussed."

He was right of course. Yet something within Legolas pushed against the other's logical resolve. Faeldaer had manipulated him, and he would never forget that fact nor would he allow it again. He was decidedly wary of the other's motivations.

But further, the present moment was reminiscent of something he felt he had lived before, though he could not put his finger to it. It pressed on his heart, and he felt irreconcilably angry in that instance. "You wanted me to live. You pushed me to survive!" he growled. "And now that I do, you want more from me? What else might you require?"

"I am not asking much!" the other admonished seeming equally as riled. He added, "_I seek what is mine by right! _Have you not been told it is courteous to speak to your elders and leaders before acting?"Those words sounded much like Thranduil, and that only made Legolas' fury deepen.

"You would have me begging your indulgence," the younger countered in a sneering voice, feeling dizzy with emotion, not even thinking about his words.

The elder shook his head, breaking his gaze and turning away. "Perhaps in time you will recognize that I do not hinder or thwart you, I only require some respect and consideration." He turned then to the stair as if to leave.

The pain in Legolas' leg flared suddenly then and he winced. But he sucked it back as he spoke a truth he had long avoided saying, "What you require means I must regularly speak with you."

Faeldaer froze where he stood. "You prefer to avoid that, I understand. You do not trust me. I understand. How long might you remain wary of me, Legolas?"

The younger elf's answer came easily. "You manipulated and maneuvered me. So long as you wish to have control of my accounting I shall feel this way."

Faeldaer pursed his lips, considering the former archer's words. Then he shook his head. "Was I so wrong? I dare say you would do and say the same were you in my position. I regret that you feel this, for it is not control I seek. In fact, I had thought for a time that we might be friends. But even if that is not to be, what I require is foreknowledge of your actions. You need not speak to me otherwise if it so grieves you."

And that stung somehow, as if again something Legolas had known was now being taken from him. He seethed with this new ache. "And in your foreknowledge, would you forbid my actions if you disapproved?"

Faeldaer faced him and without hesitation, without blinking, said, "If need required it."

There was no hesitation in Legolas' response. "Then what you seek is control! This is a tyranny I am quite familiar with. You have shown it to me before and I do not take to it well," He could almost imagine his sire before him as the pressure in his chest grew.

Faeldaer took a step closer, putting out his hand as if he sensed Legolas' pain. "You seek excuses to anger. You need not." But the younger elf pulled away savagely as the other neared. Faeldaer withdrew then, bowing his head slightly. "It is your choice. I will take your leave and not bother you again unless I learn there are other changes you strive to make that affect this community. Consider it the only speech that need be made between us." Legolas felt his eyes sting as the elf turned once again to leave.

"A despot's reply," he murmured, urging on the rift so as not to left wordless in the wake of the other's scorn. He was fueled by the fire of his pride. The pain in his leg flared once more as he stiffened his posture calling out to the elf lord as if he were a lieutenant reporting to a senior officer. "Know then, my lord, that among my endeavors, I intend to bathe the blood and dirt from my body, put there by the toils of my selfish actions. And then later I shall dine on the food that I share with all of the community. Would you need to know more than that or may I report back to you later this day?"

Faeldaer fumed, turning suddenly and stepping so he broached Legolas' space, "You try me when it is unneeded! I hope you will reconsider the wayward course of your tongue. I am no despot though I would say you act the irascible brat. How did your father ever manage you?"

Legolas' head snapped back as if he'd been struck. He had not expected such a reply and it wounded him deeply.

Faeldaer did not withdraw from the pain he inflicted, refusing to give the younger opportunity to reciprocate. "We are forced together; it is better that we should get on well. I try. You should try as well." And with that he turned away, leaving Legolas alone on the platform, watching as the elf with the coppery crown of hair walked away.

Legolas felt suddenly weak, his chest constricted painfully. Anguished, he quickly took a step back, darting into his room. He closed the door behind him, and then, overwhelmed and aggrieved, he doubled over in pain.

**TBC**


	44. Speaking to Shadows

**A/N:** Ha! You guys make me laugh. Before it was "What about Legolas?" Now it's "What about Gimli/Thranduil?" Patience, my dears, patience. Gimli will be back, as will Thranduil.... just not yet.

** Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_**

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Three: Speaking to Shadows**_

Legolas bitterly walked the steps to Faeldaer's rooms. He did not want to make the journey. Short as it was, it was grueling, for taking it meant he had to apologize. And making that admission stung his ego.

Yet he was also realistic enough to know his wrongs. He had been childishly petulant in Faeldaer's presence; he had realized it once his pain subsided, just moments after the other had left his terrace. He felt deep shame for his words. Though he had been applying it, avoidance was not a tactic he could adhere to. In fact, the longer he let it remain, the harder it would be to do what he must, and at this moment it meant that he must apologize for his actions.

Legolas took a deep breath as he stood before the door. The landing outside of Faeldaer's room was spacious and rambling, far more than was his. He had never ventured into the Mírnen lord's personal living area before. He gazed about him, apprehensively intrigued by the elements that furnished Faeldaer's apartment and terrace. Although they lived in a realm that had no availed trade and a small populace, the elves were artisans all and their craft readily showed. Even the decking beneath his feet was intricately laid. Each plank was carefully carved showing tendrils of vines that crisscrossed and meshed to form a floor. Railings seemed to grow out of this, and an archway and bower seemed to spring up from there. The outdoor space was graceful and ornate but also subtle in the pattern that was woven as if it were an organic feature growing up out of the trees. Seeing it, Legolas wondered if this were the outer area, what might the inner be like?

At the same time, he felt a strong compulsion to leave, to flee, to put his curiosities aside. It was a flight reaction, like one being hunted. He attributed the feeling to his humility and he fought it off. Still he could not help but think he should go before Faeldaer might see him.

Just as he contemplated this thought, the door to the elf lord's suite slid open and Legolas found himself caught in the presence of Faeldaer.

Once more he thought to leave. He could back away, don some fumbling excuse to explain his presence. Fly.

And suddenly, a searing pain pierced Legolas' thigh, as severe and surprising as when he had first received his wound there.

He gasped, collapsing, crushed by the intensity of the pain. "Ai!"

"Legolas!" the other cried out, catching him to prevent his fall and leading him into his suite. "What ails you?"

The Mirkwood elf squeezed shut his eyes. His breath came in short gulps and the world was spinning. He felt shame for his weakness, but when he looked down upon his thigh he saw his hands choking off blood leaking from between his fingers. The gore of an ugly wound was fully exposed from a tear in his leggings.

But in the next instant, Faeldaer stood before him . There was no recognition for Legolas' wound there in his features, and when the younger gazed down again at his leg, he found no blood or any indication of a wound. His hand was clutching at his leggings, but there was no injury, save for the pain.

The elf indicated a couch for Legolas to sit in and then disappeared from sight. A minute later Faeldaer returned with a glass of wine. It was pressed into Legolas' hands and the younger, knowing the wine produced in the forest realm was a heady drink, drank greedily. Normally he would sip lightly, but the pain was great.

"I will be well," he said handing back the cup while grimacing as he gathered his legs to stand.

"Do not be so quick," Faeldaer countered, and Legolas felt a swift weakness work over him. He lowered his head and took again to his recline as another wave of pain worked over him.

Remembering his purpose, he ground out through his teeth, "I came to apologize to you."

"Later," Faeldaer whispered, brushing fingers along Legolas' brow and temples. "You are ill somehow. Do you know the cause."

"I do not," the younger admitted, shaking his head and subsequently brushing the other away as he squeezed shut his eyes.

"Rest," Faeldaer urged.

Legolas groaned then, his head suddenly spinning beyond his control as a new wave of pain overwhelmed him.

"Rest," the word came again, and he found himself unable to resist. Fatigue suddenly claimed him, and his weakness and body's illness were beyond anything his mind could will.

"Rest."

His eyes closed and the pain swept into his bones, melting his body as he lapsed into a dreamless sleep.

xxxxxxxx

It was unnatural to wake with eyes heavy from sleep. Fatigue was still upon him, and he could not recall ever feeling so tired. He wanted to drift back into his listless state, but his mind was already focused on the sounds about him. He could hear something moving, but he could not put to his mind to what it might be, or even for that matter where he might be. He opened his eyes and found a deep blue darkness all around him. That it had color made him realize it was the twilight hours before dawn. The sound, he came to see, came from a curtain draping an open wall, exposed to the outward air. The subtle shift in wind caused it to gently ripple and wave. Yet it was not the sound of fabric fluttering on the breeze but a delicate singing of metal brushing against metal. It was then that he realized the curtain was actually a series of sculpted rods. Their shape mimicked the draped effect of willow branches.

The art in this was lovely, but having solved the mystery of the noise, he felt his wariness return. He still could not place himself as to where he might be, but he felt safe, and that was enough for now. He closed his eyes once more.

A light brush of what felt to be fingers swept over his brow. He had only just shut his eyes and had not anticipated the sensation. Panic made him gasp into full wakefulness. His eyes shot open.

"You have come back," his father said. Only it was not his father though it took him a moment to realize that. A dark silhouette sat where no one had been before.

An unseen hand touched his wrist and he hissed with the start it caused him.

"Peace, peace, peace," the other said and Legolas came to realize it was Faeldaer speaking. Suddenly everything from earlier came back to him as did the place. He laid his head back with a sigh.

"You did not know me," Faeldaer mused, a raised brow made visible in the dim light.

"How long have I been asleep?" Legolas asked, evading the immediacy of the comment.

"The day is gone and so too is the night. Dawn now comes," was his answer.

Normally Legolas would have bounded to his feet with such news. It was not like him to sleep for such long hours. But he remembered his earlier pain and instead gingerly pushed himself to sit up. He noticed he had a coverlet draped over his body and he assumed Faeldaer had offered that kindness to keep away the chill air. "What illness brings me such weariness?" he asked.

"I had hoped you might say," Faeldaer returned. "I could find no present wound."

"Yet I felt so much pain," Legolas frowned running his hand over his leg where the ache had been before. He felt nothing now.

"You seem better," Faeldaer assured, the words acting as a subtle prod.

That was when Legolas recalled his reason for coming to this place. "I came to apologize to you."

"So you had said," Faeldaer replied pointedly.

Legolas felt the sting of shame once more for his mislaid illness and Faeldaer's witness of it. Yet he bit back his humiliation. He supposed it was better he say what he must and he forestalled his pride. "I do not care for the animosity that has come between us, nor do I like the way I displayed my ill temper toward you. I was poorly behaved when last we did speak, and I would apologize for it. You are the master of this colony and if I am to remain here it is my duty to show obeisance to that -- and to you -- without question. I acted like a spoiled child being punished for a misdeed," he continued.

The shadow of Faeldaer shifted and it seemed he thought long on the words before replying. He gazed down at his hands before looking again at the elf. "It is kind of you to say as much," and here he paused. Rallying, he continued. "But your words are not needed. I am the one who must apologize."

Legolas sat taller, surprised. "My lord?" he queried, remembering this time to speak with deference.

"No need to 'my lord' me, Legolas," Faeldaer continued. "Your illness here demonstrates to me how great your injuries were, and those came, albeit indirectly, nonetheless, through me." He paused again, and Legolas watched as he twisted his hands, reading trepidation in the actions. His eyes sought out Legolas and he held the gaze though his voice lowered to a soft whisper. Still, there was weight in his final statement, the essence of tearful anguish; for Legolas it seemed the words were heartfelt. "I am sorry you were hurt in coming here, Legolas. And I am sorrier still that your friend died as a result of my selfish desire to garner the notice of the outside world."

Legolas considered the words. They came out with as much hesitancy as his had, and he thought perhaps it was a hard admission. But it was the emotion in the words that moved Legolas. Faeldaer's reply to his apology gave Legolas the cue to his own response. "Thank you, Faeldaer --" he choked on the pain of his own memory and fought to find words that he might say more, but could only stammer again, "Thank you."

He was grateful for the acknowledgment. He had wanted as much before, but there was no instant relief in it. He knew he harbored yet anger, but he knew now he could not linger on it. His entrapment in Mírnen was noted and regretted, and all he could do was use that as a catalyst to act from.

He brought his feet to the floor testing the weight of them before standing. The pain was gone.

His head was bowed so he did not see Faeldaer shift his position in the dark. All he knew was that a hand brushed his arm.

With warrior instinct, he flinched away from the touch, not even thinking on the reason behind it.

"Legolas?" Faeldaer's voice asked from the dark.

"I do not care to be touched," Legolas replied defensively.

"Not all touches are meant to be intimate," the other said and Legolas shied away. He did want to think of the implications of that statement.

"I only meant to help you rise." Faeldaer supplied.

But Legolas had already done so. "I should leave," he said, turning to the shadowy figure of Faeldaer.

"What do you think caused your pain?" Faeldaer asked. He remained seated.

"I would not know. An ache has been pressing on me for several days now, but not with this severity. I should see the healer."

"What had you been doing up to its onset?"

"Naught that would cause the pain," Legolas said dismissively. Such questioning irritated him. Then, realizing he was being evasive, he softly supplied, "Truly, my actions were as they always have been."

"You were hunting, were you not?"

"Yes," the younger said, smiling as he thought on this. "We have been supplying meat for the tables. Your people have improved their skills greatly in a short time."

"You are an experienced hunter. You have been a good teacher to them. Before coming here, they had never conceived of the task. They had to learn what must be done on their own." Faeldaer chuckled. "As you might guess, they were not very good. For our first many years, we lived off of what we could forage, not what we could hunt."

"One can survive on that, as well you know. There is much to cultivate from the woods," Legolas offered, remembering the feast prepared by the Ents. There was no meat at that table either.

"True. But I wonder at your ease in teaching," Faeldaer said and Legolas could see the elf's smile fade, suspicion in his voice. "I wonder too at the cause for your pain. I doubt hunting had much to do with it."

"What is it you think?" Legolas asked warily.

"When last we spoke, you said I was acting the role of a despot king."

"I have apologized for that."

"Yes. It was what you came here to do," Faeldaer said, now standing to face Legolas. "But you felt pain immediately after. I could see it in your bearing. The reminder of --"

"I think I know what you allude to," Legolas said, cutting him off and starting for the door.

"Your pain is in your mind."

"You know nothing of my pain."

"Oh, it is real, I will attest to that, but the cause comes from within," Faeldaer said, reaching out to the younger elf though he drew away when he saw Legolas pull away.

"I will leave now," Legolas said, regaining himself, as he continued to the door.

"Perhaps it is time you began to learn something of the elf you so despise. It is not a coincidence the pain in your leg is targeted in the same place that he struck you."

"Is it coincidence that the wound I sustained here came in that place too?"

"Yet it was the reminder of your father that brought on this attack. Why do you not just ask me of him? Hints of him were what drew you to Mírnen, after all," Faeldaer intoned. "Did you not attest to Gimli that you were ready to forgive him?"

Legolas turned around to face his elder. "I came here because I was deceived," he angrily reminded the other.

"This is an old argument. I speak of your pain and offer you a means to get past it. Your father is not the elf you think he is. I can tell you much of him if you would like."

The pain in Legolas' leg was returning, a slow ache at first, but Legolas knew it would gain strength. Still he refused to let Faeldaer see him in agony again. Further, he would not entertain a conversation that might aggravate his condition. He had chosen to forgive Thranduil for what had been done to him, and in his mind he had. He saw no reason to talk more on it. He could forgive, but that did not change what he felt was an underlying cause for those actions.

In a low voice he said, "Nothing you could say to me would convince me that Thranduil is anything but a pawn of evil." He could hear the hurt in his voice, and more, he could feel it. He turned then and stalked out of the room. He would return to his own room where he would tend to his illness alone.

**TBC**


	45. Tale of the Past

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Four: Tale of the Past**_

Legolas dusted the dirt from his hands before wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked up to smile, watching Mithtaur as he directed the Huorns in their task of digging. The ground crumbled beneath their roots with the same ease as Legolas would find in running his feet in sand. Heavy clods of earth dissolved before his eyes into pliant soil. Another day of their tilling and all would be ready for planting.

Several elves worked with Legolas in the field, breaking up the dirt with rakes and hoes while others worked to remove stones turned over by the trees. Others yet were clearing away branches and stray debris. All were busy in their work, equally devoted in their chore.

Despite the cool Spring air, the sun was warm and Legolas removed his outer tunic to cool himself, enjoying the breath of wind that brushed the lightened fabric. He could not help but smile at the progress shown. As had been anticipated, it had taken two full years to gather enough seeds to plant this new acreage with wheat, but seeing the land now cleared, Legolas felt sure the effort had been a wise undertaking. He was determined to expand the community by means of its resources. Having a ready supply of grains had never been a luxury of the Mírnen elves before. Now, with Faeldaer's full knowledge and approval, that would change.

He turned away then to look outward toward the eastern lands and the horizon he could never reach, sighing. Even if there was nothing in the world beyond left for him, he could not help but wonder what was happening there to those he had once loved. Or in truth, he wondered what had come of the forests of Mirkwood, and even what might have come to Thranduil. He missed his home even if he had not admitted so much when he had lived there. Knowing that he would never see it again made him long for it... and those still living there.

At the same time, he could not forget what had been done to him, and when he thought of that his heart went cold and he did not know what he felt.

He could hear Mithtaur's voice and he turned back again to the task at hand. The Ent had disappeared from his sight, fading into the surrounding woods, but he could hear the tree lord coaxing and directing the actions of his forest brethren. Legolas smiled, for he sensed Old Greywood was happy in the work here, and in that moment he realized he was too.

The chime denoting the day's main meal rang. He turned and saw a group of elves approaching; they were carrying baskets and jugs. He guessed then that dinner was coming to the elves toiling in the fields, and this pleased him. He was not ready to leave his chore though he did feel the need for a rest. He smiled, thinking kind thoughts for the community. Faeldaer was among them and as he drew near, the elf lord addressed him. "I see an impressive accomplishment before me. I laud praises to all involved!"

Legolas nodded his head, accepting the compliment for all of them. "Thank you for your generous notice."

"Nay, my notice is not generous for it cannot be helped," Faeldaer beamed at him as he came to stand before the younger. "You and your aids have moved a forest. As a result you make promise of food through the cold months that lay ahead of us. Those are not small feats."

"The goods have yet to be delivered, my lord," Legolas said as he dipped his head, both humbled and pleased. "Offer praises when the task is truly done."

"My pleasure will be doubly so then, for it is good to see just the activity that transpires here let alone the excitement drawn at the prospect," Faeldaer smiled.

"I take it then these actions meet with your approval," Legolas teased with a grin as he eluded to the argument the two had had years before.

"I would be a despot ruler if they did not," Faeldaer returned, obviously catching the reference. He looked warmly upon Legolas, and for a moment it seemed as if he might clap the younger elf on the back in a show of friendship for the jovial exchange. But he seemed to draw back in the next instant and Legolas knew it was for the sake of his aversion to touch that he did so. It seemed Faeldaer understand him and he appreciated that, though he also felt a little saddened that it put a wall between them.

A small group of elves gathered about Faeldaer. It was distraction enough for Legolas to move away to the outer side of the group, going to those who had brought the meal and aiding to set up makeshift trestle tables and chairs. He preferred these busy moments, and when all was ready he took a seat, finding himself at the far end of the table, distanced far from Faeldaer.

As they sat, Faeldaer's voice rose above the others. "Endeavors like these remind me of times old, my friends, left even from the days of Eregion. You are to be commended. I am gladdened to know our hearts have not forgotten how to better this world, even if it is only our lives we aid this time."

"To the betterment of our community then!" some amongst the elves cheered, laughing, and Legolas settled into his seat, leaning back and smiling as the voices around him grew. He focused his attention on Faeldaer's end of the gathering.

"Would that we could do more," someone lamented.

"It reminds me of Dorimlad," one elf noted.

Faeldaer did not answer but glanced ever briefly at Legolas before withdrawing his gaze. Legolas wondered at that, determining that there was a tale to tell in that.

On all sides he heard affirmations. "Yes, Dorimlad! Those were charitable times."

"They carry good memories."

"Those were the duties we built Eregion upon."

Legolas could not resist. He leaned in toward Haethlin, the elf at his right side, and whispered so as not to draw attention to his ignorance. "They speak of something I am unfamiliar. What -- or who -- is Dorimlad?"

"You do not know?" Araneth, a maiden sitting on the other side of the table asked him, obviously overhearing his query. He was a little affronted that she would intrude when the question had not been directed to her and he frowned when she teased him. "I would have thought it might make the chronicles of history, so great was that endeavor."

"None that I have read," Legolas apologized, quickly recovering and speaking to those about him more directly. "Was Dorimlad a city?"

"It was a matter that was notable to those closest to it, but I do not think those afar knew of it, Araneth," Faeldaer scolded, leaning in to glance down the table at the maid, obviously having overheard the female elf. He gazed momentarily at Legolas, as if weighing the merit of what he said. Then nodding, he turned away, speaking to the group at large. "There were those involved who did not wish to be touted for their good deeds though their actions were nigh heroic, the same as it is here. I think we should respect that and keep that memory for another time."

"Why should we not speak of Dorimlad?" someone asked.

"It may not please all to hear of it," Faeldaer answered, again eyeing Legolas.

"It was a magnanimous gesture, Faeldaer," Araneth argued. "Who here is ashamed of what we did then?"

A murmur arose from the group then as many agreed with the maiden.

"Besides, the gift obviously has carried on," someone in the group said, and Legolas found many eyes suddenly turned upon him though he certainly did not know why.

"I think perhaps you think it is me who is displeased, my lord Faeldaer," Legolas said warily. "While all else look to me as if I share in this knowledge. Please tell me the tale of this Dorimlad so I might know if I approve or not."

"Such acts do not stray far from their source it seems," Araneth said, eyeing Legolas as she said this, but Legolas did not understand her meaning.

"Dorimlad was a settlement of mortals in the valley regions, some ten leagues beyond Hollin city. They were good people but nature can be cruel at times. They were unfortunates who suffered for it," Haethlin explained, apparently reading Legolas' confusion.

"Their homes were in the river vale, a region rich for the plentitude of sun and temperate climate. But in one grim year, a dark side of Arda's graces prevailed and they were scorned not once, not twice, but thrice in a like number of seasons," Brethilas, one of Legolas's hunting companions, said as he leaned past Haethlin.

"Was it the Dark Lord?" Legolas asked.

"Nay, though there are some who would say it was. But many were wont to blame Him for any dim lapse, be it toothache or plague," Haethlin dismissed, but Legolas could see there were some who disagreed, even in his nearest company. "It was merely weather that came. But weather dire it was, for in three successive seasons they suffered devastating climates."

"The valley flooded," Araneth completed succinctly, seemingly growing patient with their storytelling. She smiled as Legolas turned her way, and her eyes fixed directly on him. "It was early summer then, and the torrential rains washed the crops away. They lost their crop in its entirety, and you can only imagine the lament. Even in the city, though we had markets of our own, we mourned, for Dorimlad had goods of some kinds that surpassed what we could provide. Strawberries and lettuces and grains of all variety." Her eyes looked tearful and Legolas felt moved.

"But the fortitude of those resilient people was great and they were able, with some aid from the cityfolk of Hollin, to plant a late crop," Brethilas interjected, and Araneth visibly bristled as Legolas turned in his direction.

"Yet a second series of rains came, and flooding waters overflowed the river again. This time most of the crop was spared, but many lost their homes," Araneth continued as if she'd never been interrupted. "Still their drive was great and they recovered again. But as harvest time came, the elements once again proved to be an adversary to those good people. Weather of rare force drew in from the north, and rather than moving on into the mountains, it stalled along the western ridges and created a terrible storm that hovered over the valley floor. It was accompanied by unnatural cold and it settled into the lands. The crops once more were ruined and took with it all the orchard harvests too. Worse, the snows in the higher grounds forced the river waters to rise, and those poor people faced flooding all over again."

"That is a tragic tale," Legolas replied frowning, imaging the events. "Tell me that there came a happy end." He looked down the table toward Faeldaer, thinking he should be the one to say it, but the other would not meet his eyes and was instead shaking his head.

Haethlin spoke. "A campaign was created to build new homes for the Dorimladers on higher grounds. Food was gathered from the city's stores and many elves took the more destitute into their homes. More importantly, engineering plans were drawn up and the river was walled, creating channels to control the water. It took several years to complete but Berenhûn worked the endeavor proudly."

"Berenhûn?" Legolas asked.

"That was what he was called by the folk of Dorimlad, though it was not, of course, his true name. Still, the name held true. He was the organizer who first conceived the endeavor. Though he was employed well and came from noble lineage and wanted for little, he donated all he had to feed and clothe those in need, begging the indulgence of the Lord and Lady so they might house the many he befriended. Through his efforts, never again did the valley flood. For years long, even after his departure, songs were sung of him."

"I am surprised you do not know of his deeds," Araneth chided and something in her teasing ways made Legolas feel anxious.

"Why? Is the 'bold heart' among us?" Legolas asked, translating the name Berenhûn. "I would think you all of bold heart and that any here capable of managing such a valiant cause. You say that Berenhûn is not his real name. Come now, tell me: is he among you, the Mírdain of most noble cause?" Legolas queried.

A tittering of laughter rang around him and he glanced at Araneth and then the still-evasive Faeldaer.

"He was not though he spent much time amongst us in those days and after. He was quite appreciative of our craft," Haethlin said.

"I meant that I would have thought that you had heard of this charitable campaign prior to today," Araneth persisted with laughter in her voice.

Legolas glanced at Faeldaer, noting that the leader glared sharply at the maiden as if making note to himself his displeasure. "Why would I know of it?" Legolas asked, turning back to Araneth.

"Because Berenhûn was the name given to Thranduil Oropherion," Araneth said smiling, though he saw she did this obliviously, not realizing this might be a source of pain for the young elf.

Legolas dropped his gaze to his lap. _Berenhûn?_ He had no idea. And though he tried hard to hide the ill-mood that suddenly overwhelmed him he knew he must carry an expression of distress, for Brethilas questioned, "Are you well?"

He nodded, finding it difficult to speak a lie, and listened as one in the group began to sing a song that praised the ancient rescuer of Dorimlad. Legolas could only shake his head, astonished that here too such worship existed.

"Surely there were those that influenced his actions," The words slipped past his lips before he could think. Legolas gazed up at those nearest him and ignoring the fact that he was disparaging his father before those who found him admirable.

For Legolas, the idea that Thranduil might have done something that was of benefit to someone other than himself was surprising. But there were many in the Greenwood realm who said the same. Legolas had long resigned himself to disagree with them, but he had thought it only a regional argument. Never had he expected to hear such words spoken outside of his realm.

Haethlin shook his head. "Dorimlad was where many came to know Thranduil. He had been a quiet courtier to the Lord and Lady before that event and few knew of him, at least among the Mírdain, that is."

"You say though that some felt the misery delivered upon those mortal folk derived from a power greater than nature?" Legolas asked.

Araneth nodded fervently while others, seeming to read his trepidations, swallowed back their agreement.

Brethilas defended the once-young elf though, "Berenhûn was very determined in his endeavor to see those made homeless aided. I do not think any suspected him of malicious intent."

"Of course not," Legolas whispered under his breath. He looked down the table again to Faeldaer, and though he had not spoken loud enough for any to hear him, he suspected the elder elf did, or could at least guess his words. Faeldaer would not meet his eyes.

"Your father showed a great deal of leadership. Many said it was the first time he took up a real cause. He displayed much promise," Araneth said admiringly.

"It heartens us to know his endeavors continued and that you act with the same selflessness as he," someone in the group added.

Legolas felt his face redden as once more all eyes turned on him and many were patting him on the back though he winced as they did.

A voice interrupted the thick burr of words. "Haethlin, I was inspecting the hutches and pens this morning. How goes your breeding work?"

It was Faeldaer speaking, clearly changing the subject and it seemed some sighed in relief as the conversation was shifted. Further, it worked. All eyes went to the dark-haired elf who had recently been spurred by Legolas' ideas for changes and was attempting to breed rabbits and wild turkeys as another supplement to their food supply.

Legolas met Faeldaer's gaze and nodded his gratitude. He saw the concern shining in the other's face and he quickly turned away.

He waited for a polite moment to leave the table, excusing himself quietly as he stepped away. Then, when out of the group's sight, he leaned into the nearest tree and breathed out a shaky sigh, uncertain how he felt. Clearly his father had played a role as a rescuer to a destitute group of villagers. What Legolas was not so sure of was if Sauron had a part in making that role possible. They had said the valley had been blessed with good seasons and kind weather, but in that one year they had been visited three times with calamitous situations. It seemed too much to think it just circumstance that had created such.

He started when he heard a twig snap behind him, thinking he had bee alone. He turned to find Faeldaer there.

"I would cuff Araneth if she were not a grown adult," the elf leader fumed.

"Araneth?" Legolas asked, dazed and not comprehending.

"She would not let the subject be. I am sorry for the pain that topic mustered."

"Do they know I suffer?" Legolas asked, nodding to the group.

"None before, but I suspect some see it now."

"You should have warned me," Legolas said though he knew that to be an impossible task.

To his surprise Faeldaer merely chuckled. "I have tried," he said, and Legolas' frown softened as he acknowledged his own stubborn resolve not to speak of his father.

"I know," he said softly as he sank to the ground, pulling his left knee into his chest that he might cut off the pain that suddenly nagged there now.

"I know what you think. But you should know that I don't believe your suspicions true. In fact, I think Thranduil is a better elf than you make him to be," the elder said.

Legolas looked up at the auburn-haired leader now towering above him. "You know I feel he has been allied to Sauron," he countered.

"Nearly all the elves of this colony have been allied to the Dark Lord, though none knowingly," Faeldaer returned, tilting his head as he looked back at the group. "If you are to scorn him then you must then turn away from all you now associate."

Legolas could not help but scan the gathering as he contemplated this. But his eyes returned to the elf and his gaze hardened. "As you said, 'knowingly.' It is not the same. I think it possible he knew what he did."

"How can you think that so?" Faeldaer asked and the elder too came to sit upon the ground.

Legolas raked his fingers into the soil at the base of the tree, absently stirring and lifting the detritus as he found his voice. "You would have me speak of him but I would rather not. Leave it be said that you and your people sought good through your efforts. Thranduil's works turned out ill in the end. You did not know the outcome would be so grave while Thranduil was advised to go elsewhere in his endeavors."

"But of course we were advised to do otherwise as well. There are always arguments either way," the elder argued. "It is hard to know what you reference when you will not speak your mind. Regardless, Celebrimbor conferred with Annatar too. He shared his greatest secrets in crafting the jewels that passed to the lords of all the known realms. Surely you find Celebrimbor guilty of great evil -- consorting with the darkness as he did? Does not history portray him so?"

"History paints him as an elf fooled like many others. He was not alone," Legolas said, knowing his arguments against his father to be hypocritical in light of those he pledged in Celebrimbor's defense.

Faeldaer looked sharply at Legolas then and a light radiated in the jewelsmith's eyes. His voice grew firm. "We aided Annatar in making the Rings. We were made fools for following Him, believing His guidance. We did the same as Thranduil. Worse, for wars were fought for the mistakes _we _made. Can you say the same of your father?" Legolas looked away then though he listened as the other continued.

"And the one among us we hold in highest esteem is ranked lowest in history's regard. We understand Celebrimbor's failure, for it was our failure. We do not denounce him as others who lived past him do. We understand what Annatar did to him."

Legolas balled his hand into a fist, feeling the dirt and detritus digging into the palm of his hand. "Why do you do this to me? I know what you would say. Why can you not believe that I will come to my healing when I am ready?"

"I do not press you, Legolas. I have kept my distance and said nothing to you on the matter of your father for several years now. Yet you cannot erase your past and the name of your father cannot be avoided. He will haunt you so long as you ignore him. The pain he inflicted upon you must be tended if these wounds are to heal."

"But I am far from him. Can I not be allowed to find happiness without him?" Legolas said, drawing his knee in even closer and thinking of his earlier happiness.

"Neither distance nor time will solve this. Your pain continues and you yet hide yourself and your feelings because of him."

"What would you have of me?" Legolas asked, knowing he could not win this debate.

"Let us meet and talk of him, quietly, and without audience. And in this, let us broach the topic of forgiveness," the elegant lord replied.

Legolas suddenly realized the light in Faeldaer's eyes was dimmed and he too seemed pained though he did not think the ache a physical one. For the first time, Legolas found himself distressed by the elf lord's emotion. "But why is it important to you?" he asked, clarifying his earlier question so as to show his concern.

Faeldaer smiled vaguely, pain clearly in his eyes, but he looked at Legolas and brightened slightly. "I am selfish, Legolas. It is my hope that if you can find it within you to forgive your father you might be able to forgive me as well. I brought you here. I am not sure you truly forgive me this," the elder lamented and Legolas could not help but feel a measure of agreement and pity for what the elf said.

He sighed. "Yours is not the same tale."

"I think it is," Faeldaer replied. "I beg you to hear me, Legolas. If you would allow me, I think I could give you some insight into his actions."

Legolas turned away, casting his sight upon the fields and the task set for them. He weighed the words. He had been living with his anger and disappointment for many long years; by the standards of many he should be adjusted to those feelings by now. Indeed it was a burden to carry that load. But despite his efforts to relinquish himself of his hurt, it was still with him. The death of Gimli renewed it and kept his old resentments alive. His prior homesickness returned to him and he was torn. Might he be forever trapped between finding a measure of contentment and grieving eternally? Could it truly hurt him to try what Faeldaer suggested?

"I will hear you," he finally said, turning to gaze into those amber eyes. "I will come to you this eve so that we may speak."

Faeldaer smiled and bowed his head, obviously pleased. And then he left Legolas to his task.

Legolas studied the fields before him, imagining the shafts of golden wheat that would be growing there in a few months time. In the fall they would have bread, a commodity the elves of Mírnen had been watching slip away from them for years. With some ingenuity and fresh insight, he had renewed a facet that had appeared lost to the community. It seemed new eyes were what was needed to remedy their weaknesses. And perhaps that was what Legolas needed to heal himself.

**TBC**


	46. Empty Affection

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Five: Empty Affection**_

"She likes you," Faeldaer said as he greeted Legolas that evening. There was no preamble to the words; Faeldaer simply directed the statement in the moment he saw the Mirkwood elf.

Stunned by the unexpected words, Legolas drew back. In his mind he thought _Ethariel_. But that was not correct, for Ethariel was long departed and posed no threat to him in Mandos Halls where she resided. Still the jeering smile, the hint of implication in the simple words, made his stomach clench in anxious remembrance. "Who do you speak of?" he managed to ask.

"Araneth," Faeldaer answered with a broad smile, clearly misinterpreting the elf's surprise.

But if Legolas's reaction was not clear to read, his backward steps away from the elf lord's door made it outwardly apparent. Shaking his head as if denying it, Legolas fumbled yet for words. All he could manage was, "How do you know?"

The sentence remained dangling, vague fear present in the younger elf's hesitancy. Faeldaer's smile faded as he replied, "She spoke of nothing but you for the remainder of the day. She is taken, that is clear."

"Perhaps she was being polite," Legolas excused as he turned away and looked out toward the settlement. "Perhaps she was concerned because I left the table so early."

"The signs were visible to any who might see," Faeldaer said as he came to Legolas's side, indicating in a gesture the door to his rooms, as if suggesting they take their conversation indoors.

But in truth, Legolas wanted to flee, to run. Fearful that the maiden might be watching him even now, it took all he had to remain standing where he was. "Might we walk?" he asked.

Faeldaer nodded, his brow knitting in concern. "Of course," he replied and Legolas immediately took to the stairs, setting a quick pace away toward the lake, his intent the far off woods.

Racing to keep up, Faeldaer pressed Legolas, obviously concerned that the topic disturbed the elf so. "You have not courted much, have you?" he asked.

Realizing how his fear was made evident in his flight, Legolas slowed slightly. He turned to look at the other. "I do not see the relevance--"

"I do. Had you been vexed by romance in past times you would know the telltale signs of a lover in pursuit," Faeldaer explained.

Legolas was uncertain if he was being teased. Regardless, he did not feel amused. The memory of Ethareil was still fresh to him and he frowned warily. Granted, Araneth was pretty, and she seemed clever and gifted, but he had not thought of romancing her... or anyone else for that matter. Romance of any sort was truly the last thing on his mind. He did not feel comfortable with it. "I am uncertain how I should feel," he replied almost apologetically, truthfully.

"To be adored from afar," Faeldaer said, watching the elf, "does much to build one's self-esteem. At least, usually so." He glanced then at Legolas and he seemed to sober, as if he read the younger elf's anxiety.

"I do not wish to be held to such ardor," Legolas replied, resuming his previous pace.

"That is good," came Faeldaer's winded answer, "For I was going to tell you to be careful to consider the qualities of those who you would woo."

Caught off guard by the curious retort, Legolas slowed, allowing Faeldaer to match his pace. "You do not think highly of Araneth," he concluded, watching the elder.

Faeldaer met his eyes and smiled and Legolas felt immediate relief in that glance. "Honestly, I dislike her greatly," he drawled conspiratorially in a loud whisper.

Legolas barked a laugh, thrown by the sudden candor of the elf lord.

Reading Legolas' ease, Faeldaer smiled sheepishly as he added, "You have not spent the last several millennium in her company. She is relentless and never concedes an argument. I knew she was going to try me from the moment we set out for Mírnen. I avoid her company as much as I can, even now -- I would hang myself were I forced to spend any considerable time with her alone."

"Please tell me I am not the first she has pursued," Legolas softly pled.

"O, Valar no! You are one in but a series of elves she would distract herself with. In truth it is Girinir, the carpenter, she would have as a mate if he would but resign himself to the fact that they are a match."

"Girinir avoids her?"

"Nay, he dallies with her on occasion. But he prefers bed play to true union, I think."

"Has she ever set her eye upon you?" Legolas asked with a chuckle, feeling great relief to know he need not take the amorous pursuits of the lady seriously.

"Nay," Faeldaer dismissed. "None do. They know my heart belonged to Celebrimbor."

Legolas nodded, sobering. He knew too that the elf's affections were for the long-passed jewel lord. He asked then, "Does that mean you are unattainable to any who might pursue?

"It means that all here knew me in the days of Hollin; they know that though Celebrimbor and I were never bonded, my heart would have been his had he asked it. None would dare intrude."

"Except for Sauron-revealed, of course," Legolas said, nodding significantly in agreement as they came to the hidden bridge.

Faeldaer froze, staring at Legolas though it was a moment before the younger realized it. "What do you mean?" the auburn-haired elf asked.

It was then Legolas realized that what he knew of the deceptive bedding that took place between Sauron and Faeldaer was not commonly shared knowledge. "Forgive me," he stammered. "I had thought ... I saw... you ..."

"He was not Celebrimbor," Faeldaer whispered as if confirming what Legolas clearly knew.

"Nay, not Celebrimber," the young elf replied. He watched a wave of emotions contort the lord's fair face. And for Legolas too, the memory grew vivid. In his mind he remembered the battle fought on the Mírnen cliff and the moment when Annatar had revealed himself to be Sauron. He recalled how it had shaken him, how he had felt it was him experiencing that horror. He remembered how Sauron had laughed as the revelation had been made. He had felt as sick then as he had when he'd awakened to find Thranduil had done the same to him by means of Ethariel.

"_You are bonded to me, Faeldaer. You cannot fight what of me there is within you... You have been wed to my soul... You thought I was Celebrimbor that night. It was a deception, you see... How foolish of you to think so great an elf lord as he would bind his soul to an ignoble like you! Had you any sense to guide you, you would have seen he has no affections for you... Celebrimbor only pitied you!"_

Though the humiliation was not his, his face flushed, and more so when he looked into Faeldaer's eyes. He was greeted with silence and he understood that he had ventured where he should not.

The Hollin elf remained still for a moment, then turned swiftly and proceeded across the bridge, ahead of Legolas. The young elf followed, trying to think of a way to explain his poor grace. But just as he made ready to speak, to fumble for an apology, they came to the other side of the bridge and the elf lord spoke. "I had not realized that too was revealed to you in Mithtaur's song."

Legolas vowed never to speak of it again. Yet he had already said this much and now he needed to clarify what he knew so as to put it past them. "I am sorry. It is just -- I saw... Him. I heard what the Dark Lord said to you," the younger confessed in a low voice. "I know what came between you and Sauron. I apologize for having spoken of it."

The Eregion elf dropped his gaze as he seemed to accept the admission. And then he said, "It is not something I share. I did not know you had knowledge of the event. Yet I suppose, given our purpose today, I would have told you anyway. It may be important, especially given your fears regarding love and affection."

Here too Legolas grew confused. But then it dawned on him what Faeldaer was saying and how it related to him. He spoke tightly, feeling ill for what was to come and once more he led the way on their path. "I should not know," he said contritely.

Now it seemed the elder was the one who controlled the topic. "But you should. I was made to bond with Sauron, but not by choice," Faeldaer replied without rancor. And then he added. "I was misled, like you... and Ethariel."

It was Legolas's turn to freeze in his steps, but Faeldaer did not apologize as Legolas had. Instead he explained, "I know your history too. I know that Thranduil forced you to bed with that young maiden."

Stunned, Legolas stammered, "H-how?"

The elf lord shrugged, but it was not a blithe reply. More, the gesture seemed to indicate that he would soften his knowledge so that Legolas would not think he purposely intruded. "You were very vocal in your delirium when you first came here. Be at peace though, for I was the one who attended you in those days. I do not think many know this of you, just as few know of my situation with Sauron. Yet it is the reason we speak now and I would have you come to me. I think I can help you, Legolas."

Legolas felt suddenly furious. "How? I was clearly marred by what Thranduil did! I do not even have it in me to feel love or seek affection. That is why I flee from the idea of Araneth's pursuit!"

Calmly, Faeldaer spoke, "That is clear. Yet I think you are wrong, that you can love, that you can forgive. I would help by taking his side in your arguments and letting you see that he is not as base and cruel as you would believe him to be. Having been used myself, I would have you see what your father might have been experiencing in the guile of Sauron."

Other than outrage at the affront, Legolas was unsure what he thought. How could Thranduil's actions be dismissed, especially since Faeldaer had been the recipient of a like crime? That would be like excusing Sauron himself! He shook his head, finding no words to convey his dismay.

Faeldaer looked directly into his eyes as he said, "Sometimes we do criminal acts with the best of intentions. Sometimes we are blind to the harm we cause until the event is past."

But Legolas negated this, still enraged. "You think your plight is similar to that of my sire? You think you can predict his mind?"

"Thranduil and I both unwittingly became pawns to Sauron's will. I think I can attest to that part of him," Faeldaer explained.

Legolas stepped back as his anger blossomed new. He did not wish sympathies to be felt for his father. He was the one who had been wronged! His leg ached once again as he lashed out, "Do you think then that, like you, he took evil as his bedmate?"

He regretted the words the moment he spoke them for he could see Faeldaer's anger grow before his eyes. "You wrong me? How dare you when I only seek to aid you! When I joined myself in union, I was not purposeful in taking Sauron as my bed partner. I thought it was Celebrimbor I was joining to! You were witness to this. You know it true!"

Legolas knew he should feel shame for his words, that he should apologize. But he did not. Instead he found suspicion moving him like a strong current. "I wonder now, given your desire to take Thranduil's side, if the bonding did not succeed. I wonder if you are not somehow guided by Sauron, led by his bond on your soul," he accused.

Faeldaer blinked, as if astounded by the affront. "Do you think then I am a pawn of Sauron?"

Legolas nodded in response, feeling sudden apprehension. He had trusted Faeldaer this far into their conversation, but now realized that he had never vetted the other. Such an obvious question had never occurred to him prior.

But then Faeldaer laughed. He laughed loud, a deep belly laugh, and Legolas was shaken from his wariness by the response. "Oh, young Legolas, you amuse me so! Calm your worried heart." Legolas found his fears fading with Faeldaer's mirth. It came so obvious, so relaxed.

"Sit," Faeldaer gestured, and Legolas hesitated only for a moment before following his direction. He realized he did not feeling agitation any longer and thus he dropped to the base of the nearest tree.

"I take by your response that your soul..." Legolas began, hesitating, wondering once again if he was stepping too far.

"Did not mesh with his? I do not know how you can think it so. For had it, I seriously doubt I would be here in my present plight," the auburn-haired elf answered with a smile taking a seat across from the elf. And then he continued, leaning closer. "Nor would you, I think. Like the link to Thranduil, all things work in a chain. Had I not met Thranduil, the events that led me to introduce Annatar to Celebrimbor would not have come and in turn the making of the Rings would never have been. It would have been a different world than that which we now know. And had I truly been wed to Sauron, I would have easily relinquished Nenya to Him when He had asked for It, would I not? He never would have had cause to cast a spell upon this land had we truly been united." Legolas nodded seeing the logic of those words.

Curious now, the younger asked, "Did you realize your mistake immediately?" And then he added, "I know you thought him to be Celebrimbor."

Faeldaer nodded, turning earnest eyes on Legolas. "I had no reason to think otherwise. He looked like him. And he came to me on the eve of our departure. I had thought our leaving made Celebrimbor regretful and that he wished to return my love at last, to do so in a way that was lasting and true. In that guise he told me of his love, proposing our bonding right there, right then so that we would be mated eternally. He spoke the words I long had hoped to hear." He swallowed then, halting them both as his voice broke. The cool façade was gone and instead Legolas could see the corners of his mouth dragged with his shame and hurt. He recognized then that the recollection of memory was as painful to Faeldaer as ever it was to him, and for that he felt sympathy.

Continuing, Faeldaer whispered, "Ai, Valar, but it seemed so true. I have played it in my mind so many times since and wonder that I did not read the falsity in it. Celebrimbor did not love me as I would have him. I knew that. But I loved him. And so I conceded. I surrendered my heart and soul to him, willingly, thinking him no one else but the elf I loved."

Legolas read clearly the other's hurt and shame. He felt hesitant to break the physical distance between them, fearful of the intimacy such high emotions created. But he mastered enough of himself to tilt his head so he might see the other's face, and then he reached over and placed a hand on the elf's shoulder, lightly running his palm there in a brotherly way. It was the best he could offer. His eyes were telling, this he knew. And he softened his voice, knowing that he could offer consolation in that too as gently he murmured song.

The song was of the trees and it seemed appropriate there in the wood, speaking of patience and evergreen. Slowly Faeldaer seemed to compose himself, looking briefly at Legolas as he righted his posture and let the elf's hand fall away.

"You have a fair voice," he said and smiled gently once more.

Legolas smiled shyly but gave no reply.

Then Faeldaer added, "I realized immediately it was not Celebrimbor. When the moment came and the breach was crossed, I reached out to my lover with my soul. Only..." There were tears in his eyes. "Only there was nothing there. Nothing. Only me, bleeding out my desire and love. It was one-sided, the bond I was forging. It was shameful and weakening. I knew there was something wrong. I did not realize it was Sauron though until he confronted me on the cliff. I fled the one I thought to be Celebrimbor the second I realized the bond was not there."

"Why do you think it did not work?" Legolas asked. "All lore says that in a mating the faer conjoin."

"You have listened to too much superstitious drivel, my friend. The tales would have you believe that elves perish if they give up their virtue without benefit of exchanging souls, that they cannot take bedmates for the sake of pleasure alone. Yet Araneth and Girinir are proof that they can. Obviously both you and I are living examples of this falsity too."

Legolas stiffened. "But I was coerced into my actions. I did not choose to simply dally."

"As goes my tale," Faeldaer agreed.

The younger elf nodded then, conceding the similarities. "Then I may still be bonded?" he asked, voicing a long-held anxiety. It felt relief to speak it for he had never found another who could share the experience.

"I can only guess. Like you, I have never tried. But I would think it true, Legolas. I think when love exists mutually between two elves their faer do bind."

"But you loved Celebrimbor, even if the one you sought was just Sauron disguised," Legolas pointed out.

"There was no soul there to bind to," answered Faeldaer.

"What comes of one's fae then if one heart is willing and the other is not?"

Faeldaer's expression softened as he drew himself in, shuddering in recollection. His response moved Legolas. "I will not lie, it was very painful for me. I could have faded, so great was my ache. But I knew others relied upon me, and I had been entrusted with the Ring Nenya. I could not let them down. And so I pushed past my hurt and did what I must."

"Ethariel faded," Legolas said sadly. "I did not care much for her, but never would I have wanted such a thing to happen. I feel responsible."

"It was not your fault," the elder said, consoling.

Legolas' thoughts grew dark as he focused his anger for the girl's death upon the real culprit. "Nay, it was not my fault. It was Thranduil's."

"Not Thranduil's, young one," Faeldaer corrected. "Sauron's. It was Sauron's doing that killed that girl."

"You will have difficulty proving that to me," Legolas replied dipping his gaze.

"Nonetheless, I will try," Faeldaer said as Legolas felt the weight of the other's hand upon his shoulder. Somehow he found comfort in it, and this time he realized he did not flinch away from the touch. "Shall we begin?" the elder asked.

**TBC**


	47. When the Leaves Fall

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Five: When the Leaves Fall**_

"I tell you, I cannot recall!" Legolas answered. He did not wish to argue, but he was getting frustrated and he saw no good reason to keep at this same point.

"You are an elf. You _can _recall. You just choose not to," came the counter.

"How many months have we been at this, Faeldaer? Over and over again we come to this dance and never do we find a way to get around it."

"That is because you circle the subject rather than take the straighter path."

"The straight path is covered in muck. It is as thick as molasses," Legolas muttered under his breath, absently gazing out the window. The trees were turning and the sun's golden light made the world glow a rich color. But it did not warm him. Instead he felt anxious, wary, as if something ill was to come to him. He had never liked the amber colors of autumn.

"I did not say it was the easier way, but it _is _our road. We must traverse there if we are to find a way past this."

"I weary of these same words," Legolas grumbled, pinching his brow as he bowed his head. He could feel a headache beginning to thrum there. Indeed this meeting was not going as he would have liked.

"Your suffering is linked to your father and what befell you through his actions. I do not think you have forgiven, as you say you have."

"I am done," Legolas said, resigned to giving up now before things got worse. He had been through this before. If he remained he would only grow more agitated. Rarely did he walk away from Faeldaer's abode feeling lighter than when he had come. In fact he did not know why he continued to come. He turned to the door.

"Oh, will you leave now? There is an original action! Have we not seen that before as well?" the other opined.

Legolas fisted his hands as his anger mounted. "What choice do I have? There is nothing more I can say here. It is clear you will now badger me into staying. How tired I grow of this, Father!" Immediately he regretted the utterance.

Yet he found excuse. Faeldaer had not risen as Legolas had and the light of the setting sun was bright upon his brow. It created a glowing halo about him, making him appear noble, a ruler upon his throne. Combined with his words, Legolas was reminded of many an argument he had had with his father. Thus the flawed rebut.

Still, the mistake was there, and quite evidently so. Legolas watched as Faeldaer smiled, sparing himself words as he motioned for Legolas to sit.

Legolas dipped his head. The betrayal of his tongue humbled his resolve. He had no choice but to give in to the direction, sinking once more into the cushioned chair sitting before Faeldaer. In a voice much softer, he mustered his next query, "Must this forever repeat? Is it not enough that I have forgiven Thranduil's mistakes?"

Faeldaer studied him for a long minute before answering. Cocking his head, he said, "Again and again I have heard you say those words, for ever when I press you to relive those moments that you proclaim forgiven, you revert to what you have just shown me -- one who is angered." He paused a moment, studying Legolas before reaching over and tentatively placing his hand over Legolas'. And though Legolas watched his move, he could abide the touch. It _was_ progress. "We have watched your wheat grow and the harvest come. We have seen the grain milled and we eat the fruits of your efforts. We are glad, yet you are plagued still by pain and misery. That is why we continue with this."

And indeed, it had been many months that they had come to discuss this and other like moments. Granted, it was not consistent conversation but spaced-out meetings, usually brought about when Legolas found himself troubled by the gripping agony of old wounds. It was then that he found the only thing that helped was expressing his anger and being done with it.

Unfortunately, it seemed he never was done with it.

"What particularly brought you here today, Legolas? What spurred this latest ache?" Faeldaer continued in his reasoned questioning.

Legolas could have feigned ignorance, but he knew what the elf lord was asking. He dropped his gaze as he answered, not wishing to concede his weakness. "I came upon Gavilir and the others creating a map."

"Ah, the one they are using to chart the deer patterns? Aye, I know of what you speak. Does this remind you of the past?" Faeldaer asked.

"They were huddled over their many drawings, consulting and describing to one another what more they might put into them. And..." He had to pause for a moment, knowing he must describe adequately what transpired, for if he did not Faeldaer would press him on that too. "And somehow I felt myself transformed to my father's map room and the counsel we kept there. Thranduil and I had many a heated debate over those maps."

Faeldaer nodded, knowing Legolas' prior occupation as a battle strategist. "How many days have you endured your present pain?"

Legolas considered hesitantly. "Five... no six. I waited to see if it would go away of its own accord. Often it does."

"But not this time."

He dropped his gaze, feeling somehow reprimanded for this truth. "Nay," he confirmed.

"Bringing me back to my original question: what conversation lay between you and your father before he struck you with the knife?"

"The knife and the maps are two separate events. They are not related," Legolas countered. He was evading the question, he knew, but he also truly did not see Faeldaer's point.

"Answer and you might learn," Faeldaer replied in a terse voice.

Releasing a sigh, he said, "I cannot recall." And this was true. The whole of the event was like a scene of a battle. All the actions and words blurred together into blade, blood, shouting, and pain. Glancing at Faeldaer's expression, he could see he was not believed. "Truly, I do not remember."

Faeldaer's mouth drew into a straight line as he considered Legolas' answer. Then he brought his hands up and eased back into his chair. "Very well. Perhaps we should look at this from another perspective. If you cannot recall the conversation, can you remember where you were before you went to see your father?"

Legolas closed his eyes as he warily answered. Of course he could recall. "I was with my mother."

"She was dying," Faeldaer supplied.

Legolas nodded. "She had been lingering like that for several days. I approached Thranduil because I wanted him to release me so that I might take her to the Greater Realm."

"Good. Now describe your father... the scene... your state," Faeldaer supplied.

The pounding in his head increased, but Legolas ignored it, speaking on what he recalled most vividly. "Thranduil was at the table on the terrace, where we had breakfasted as a family. His head was down and there was a glass of wine next to him."

"And you believed him drunk," Faeldaer supplied.

"His eyes were red and his words made little sense," Legolas justified defensively. "Yes, I thought him so."

"And what of you? Had you been drinking as well?" Faeldaer asked, surprising Legolas with the absurd question.

"I had not!" he defended, coming to stand.

Faeldaer shrugged. "Long have you evaded my questions on the subject. I thought you might be hiding something."

"How can you think such a thing?" Legolas fumed, pacing.

"You think it of him."

"She was my mother!"

"She was his wife."

Legolas shook his head, pushing aside the defense. "His words... he..." But he could not conjure a viable excuse.

"And here you are, one of the eldar, thus gifted with the keenest memories, yet you cannot recall the full of what happened that day. Why should I think you were not tipping your cup? It is a legitimate question to ask."

"I was distressed! I had not been sleeping! That seems a fair enough excuse for not being able to recall each detail. My heart was torn by grief!" the younger argued.

"As I am sure was the situation for your father. Might it be he had been crying, thus the reason for his red-rimmed eyes? Might it be that he too had had little sleep and had relinquished for the moment to his fatigue?" Faeldaer offered.

"You defend his actions," Legolas groused feeling betrayed by such insight. "His words were a madness to me."

"What did he say? Tell me," the elder elf replied.

Legolas closed his eyes and took a great breath. His head pounded and his legs felt weak. "I feel weary," he said, realizing the sudden fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. He gripped the edge of the table nearest him.

"Sit then, but do not surrender your progress. This remembrance may be for the better," Faeldaer directed. He pointed to the couch where Legolas had rested in the time of his illness years back. Following what was instructed of him, Legolas found himself gazing once more at the full wall screen of draping leaves. Bright light emanated from that outdoor space while the copper leaves of the curtain cast coppery brown light about the room, hard shadows and soft. It reminded him of the forest in the deeper reaches of Mirkwood, far away from his father's palace. Strangely, it was in those darker recesses of the wood that he had felt safest. He was safe here, he reminded himself.

Faeldaer continued his questioning. "You said that when you came upon your father you had not been sleeping."

"I had been with my mother nearly from the time she had fallen under the spell of the sea-longing," Legolas confirmed. "I would not be parted from her."

"Which was how long?"

"The days melted one to the next. They were a blur of time. Perhaps a fortnight," Legolas shrugged.

"And you did not sleep in that whole time?" Faeldaer asked.

"I could not," Legolas defended. "I did not wish to leave her."

"But the peace of reverie -- ?"

"I could not," Legolas cut him off.

Faeldaer stood then and wandered to the other side of the room. His eyes grew distant as he spoke. "You were wearied then, just as you weary now." He opened a drawer and pulled out an implement. Was it a knife? Legolas could see it was so as the other turned around to face him. He was not sure he agreed with Faeldaer's tactics, but he did not feel like arguing. Instead he looked away. Faeldaer might be toying with the knife as Thranduil once had but Legolas did not need to participate.

"Perhaps I do not see as you do," Legolas replied darkly, though he suspected in truth that he did.

"It is not good to go so long without rest," Faeldaer pointed out.

Legolas eyed him. He could see the argument coming, the reasoning of Faeldaer's words. "You think what came was my doing?" he said.

The elf lord replied, "I think it is impossible to do battle alone. There must always be an adversary."

"You think I instigated the event," the younger elf added, growing angry as he speculated this.

"I think you were weary. It says much." Faeldaer's eyes remained fixed on the knife, and the younger once again turned away.

Still, Legolas could not bear the disparity of Faeldaer's remark. He snarled over his shoulder to the other. "He struck _me_. It was not the other way around!"

"Are you sure? You say you cannot remember what happened," the elder taunted.

Legolas felt then he should leave, but he knew what Faeldaer would say should he do so. "He did what you do now. The knife was in his hands." He said this but still he did not look.

"Yet it became embedded in your leg."

"Because he struck it there!" the elf snapped.

"Without reason?"

"We were arguing!" Legolas quickly came to his feet and walked the length and back of the room. All weariness fled him. He found himself trembling in agitation as he recalled the event in his mind. He could see moments of it materializing about him, life coming to the recollection.

He heard Faeldaer ask, "Where did he get the knife?"

And then it was as if he was there, truly transported by memory back to that time and place.

_He saw his father's head come up from where it had been resting on folded arms. The glass of wine next to him had made Legolas think it had been drink that gave him his puffy red eyes. But with Faeldaer's explanation he now imagined it to be exhaustion and tears that altered his father's appearance. Thranduil turned when Legolas called his name, and he picked up the knife from where it had been laying beneath him._

"_There is little time left," Legolas remembered saying. "Please, Father, you must let her go so that she might be free."_

_Thranduil frowned at the words. He began playing with the knife. His eyes seemed transfixed by the hard play of light off the edge of the blade as he flipped it over and over in his hands. "There is no freedom for her. She is a prisoner, as am I. It is the price of wearing the crown."_

"_But she is dying!" Legolas protested. He came to sit in the heavy chair next to his father. "I beg you to be kind! She has such little time before she fades completely. If we leave though... perhaps hope will keep her alive long enough to get her to the Havens."_

_Thranduil turned his eyes on Legolas then. The corners of his mouth turned down as he said, "You do not see... she will be in a better place as she is. Nothing can hinder her journey if she remains here."_

"_She will journey to Mandos' care if nothing is done!"_

"_She will be safe here. She will not be subject to harm if she stays," Thranduil said laying his head down once again._

"_You cannot mean what you say!" Legolas exclaimed, shaking him awake again. "You would prefer she die?"_

"_Prefer?" Thranduil returned, slamming the knife flat into the table's surface. The table rocked, the wine swayed as the goblet teetered on its base. Something golden flashed with the movement, and it seemed Legolas heard the sound of metal meeting metal, but he saw nothing and he paid it little mind. His eyes and thoughts were upon his father. _

_The elder looked down at the weapon his demeanor softening and Legolas felt fear grip his heart. Thranduil whispered, "Have you no shame? Of course I would not prefer that she die! But I have little choice in the matter. She succumbs to an illness to which there is no remedy. And if I let her go it is almost certain she would meet worse on the road. I must accept the fate made for her. It is the kinder consideration."_

"_Nay! There is yet time." Legolas begged. "I will safeguard her! Let me take her to the Havens. Let me put her on a boat. I will see her to the Undying Lands."_

"_Never!" Thranduil exclaimed as he lifted the blade once more. "Never! Do not say such things! The fates you stir in speaking these thoughts! They would have you both should you take her and then... and then where would I be? I should strike this knife into your heart before I would allow that! You will not leave my constant vigil, neither of you!"_

"_It is her only chance!"_

"_I forbid it!"_

_Legolas' voice caught in his throat, tears choking him. "She cannot die!" _

"_It has been made so by forces I cannot control," the elder said as he began again to turn the knife end over end, his eyes fixed upon it._

"_Nay! The choice is yours! And you condemn her!"_

_The king's eyes did not shift from where the knife continued to roll and turn in his hands. His voice took on an edge of cold dismissal. "What has come was foretold. I should have believed it. My Passion had spoken it to me, but I chose not to listen. I put It aside. I had learned that the advice It would offer was not always prudent and wise. So I ignored the warnings as my life changed ... you were born ... we were happy. I did not think I needed It to rule, nor with the passing of Shadow could I imagine the threat remained. I thought He was gone. There was peace." Thranduil turned the knife end-over-end._

"_He? Who?" Legolas asked trying to follow these strange words._

"_And yet the gifts continued to come. I should have seen it was there, always lurking in the shadows. The darkness of the forest... the tower to the south... and then the candles... How did I not see? I preferred to be blind!"_

_The candles? What was Thranduil saying? Did his father know Legolas had returned the candles? Did he blame Legolas for that act? He could not be doing this for the sake of spite. Legolas shook his head, thinking better of his sire. _

_Still, he watched the knife as it continued to revolve. He could not bear to be ignored as he was now. "Listen to me! This is murder that you do!"_

_Thranduil looked up at Legolas then. There was a look of wild terror in his eyes. "Murder?" He stilled the knife. "Murder?" And then he began to laugh. It started low but quickly dissolved into hysterical mania. Between breaths he said, "Should I do otherwise? Seeing that I am responsible for what came of my father, should I not also reign over the death of my wife?"_

"_You know not what you say," Legolas gasped, unsure where this line of talk was leading. Yet he found his fear growing greater in his next breath._

_Thranduil raised the knife, turning the point down and toward his heart, fisting the haft with both hands. It was clear to Legolas that the intent was aimed at himself. "Murder. Yes, this is what I do best."_

_But before he could strike, Legolas was there, reaching across the space between their chairs, half-standing, his hands also on the knife. He fought to take it away. And through their battle, Thranduil continued to speak. "Deny Passion. That is the advice I offer. It will pass to you, but do not wear It!_

"_Give me the knife!" Legolas demanded._

_Thranduil began to fight the younger elf with more earnest. "Nay, it is hers! It is yet what I have of her!"_

"_Give it to me!"_

_In the tussel, hands tangled, arms crisscrossed, leverage was shifted. Legolas found himself pulled off-balance by the superior strength of his father. Still he would not relinquish the knife. Again he saw a flash of amber as his father began to rise. The knife remained pointed down but their tug of war pushed it toward one, then the other. The younger elf pried his fingers beneath those of his father, trying to peel them away from the handle. But then the older gained the advantage, and Legolas could not dodge beneath the greater weight. Unable to balance himself, Legolas rocked back on his heels. Yet he was able to pull the knife his way. He won that part of the duel. But that was the moment when Thranduil lost his hold. His fingers slipped. Legolas pulled the knife away._

_And with it, he fell into the chair. He fell into the chair and the knife came with him. He fell into the chair. _

_The momentum of the fall and the aim of the knife drove the blade down._

_Legolas looked down. He saw the knife, its delicately carved handle with his hand fisted around it. Blood, rich, ruby-colored, immediately pooled around the edges of it, spilling onto his hand. Astonished and not yet realizing the pain, Legolas likened the wound to a flowing spring. He watched it for a moment, surprised and disbelieving, awed by the amount of blood pouring out of his body. He could hear the sound of it spilling to the ground in a steady flow. The random thought occurred to him that the wound was a bad one, possibly fatal. He looked up at his father but saw that Thranduil appeared as shocked as he was. He reached out his hand in the hopes that the movement might spur his father to action, but as he raised it he saw it was painted in his blood. That was when he noticed he was shaking. Weakness suddenly overwhelmed him. Vaguely he thought that perhaps he should get help. He tried to rise, and only then did he feel the pain. _

_He remembered falling to the floor, crying out in his helpless condition. He could recall what it felt like when the chair pulled away from him. He had stabbed the knife clean through his flesh. Dully, he conceived the thrust of his own hand when he had struck and was amazed at both the sharpness of the blade and the strength it had taken to pierce his own leg. It seemed unreal. He rolled to his side. He could hear a scream -- his father's-- and he wanted to join it though it was more a mechanical thought rather than a fearful one. Yet he found himself mute, able only to listen to the sound of feet running, servants coming in answer to his father's cry. He was laying upon his side on the ground. A tear rolled down his cheek. He was cold, trembling, and alone. His weakness was pervading and only dimly could he recall Thranduil bowing down to the floor, lifting Legolas into his arms, pressing a hand to the wound. And then he remembered no more. _

The room was spinning and his knees felt weak. He was shaking, his breath coming hard. He was once again in the apartment of Faeldaer. "I did it," he whispered. "It was me."

"You did what?" Faeldaer asked. He was standing directly before Legolas, his expression one of great concern. When had he moved to that position? He had been on the other side of the room when Legolas had last noticed.

Legolas was about to answer him, but his eyes strayed to the tool still in Faeldaer's hand. The light of the sun caught the golden reflections upon it and Legolas could not help but stare at the knife. "Where did you get that?" he asked, his voice catching in his throat as he spoke.

Faeldaer looked down at the small weapon. It was beautifully carved, but not a great implement of warcraft. Legolas had carried one similar in both his vambraces and boot in the days before coming to Mírnen, using either as an added tool if needed, for protection or skinning or hunting. "It was among the weapons Mithtaur found near Gimli's body," Faeldaer answered. Again, warm the hues of the room keened off the blade.

A look of surprise passed over his expression. "Do you recognize it?"

The shuddering was uncontrollable, though inside Legolas felt nothing. He was numb, struck silent by the sight of the knife. And then the shaking of his body moved into his head, his hands. And then he heard a noise that sounded like an animal wounded. It came from his throat.

"Was it --?" Faeldaer asked, but he did not complete the question.

Legolas nodded. _It was hers. It was hers_, he thought though he did not have the strength to say it. His face felt hot, his head ached, his stomach was a knot. The sound of his voice, that noise unrecognizable, reverberated about the room. And Faeldaer was there in an instant, holding him, warm and comforting and holding him, keeping him from falling.

xxxxxxxxx

He slept in Faeldaer's bed that night while the elder kept vigil over him. Voicelessly he had agreed to be dosed into unconsciousness. It had not taken much Mírnen wine to do the task, for the shock of seeing the knife dulled him to the point of weakness. He easily succumbed to dreamless sleep.

He awoke in an agitated state, choosing not to linger in repose but instead to reside in the main room so he might gaze again on the weapon.

He thought about Faeldaer's immediate response the eve before. The elder elf had apologized profusely for drawing it out. Though the Mírnen lord admitted -- as Legolas had suspected -- that he had meant to replicate Thranduil's actions in toying with the weapon, doing so for the sake of coaxing Legolas' memories out of their hidden recesses, it had not dawned on the elder that he might actually be working with the true instrument of the Legolas's miseries. But then how could he have known that Thranduil carried that knife with him always? And how could he know that this found weapon now served as evidence that not only had Gimli died on the Celebrant plains in an apparent mission to rescue Legolas, but so too had Thranduil? Who could have imagined the dwarf and elf king might team up in such a venture?

Legolas thought again on Mithtaur's part in those early days of Legolas' acclimation to his new home. The world then had not settled for the elf, and he was lost in shock over the clear death of his friend. But even then, the Ent had pointed out the oddity of not finding any bodies other than the dwarf's and those of the orcs at the battle site. Legolas' blithe disregard, seeing only a handful of elven weapons as uncovered finds (and apparently not all of them it seemed) had rightly made him proclaim that elves had been there too. Only then he had not considered the identities of those lost. He wished now he had. Placing this weapon to its owner, he felt guilt for not deciphering the puzzle sooner.

"I would have you remove that from my sight," Legolas said. He dared not touch the knife, fearing what such a tactile sensation might bring. At the same time, he supposed he had learned as much about the weapon as he could. The night before had revealed both what had truly occurred in that original encounter with it and also the fate of his sire.

"I was not sure if you would want it," Faeldaer said. He picked up the knife and slipped it into the original drawer from which he had removed it, adding, "I will bury it, I think, so that you will never have to look upon it again."

Legolas nodded, sighing. He knew for the sake of both his parents that he should have wanted the knife, but the significance of its discovery was too much for him. And though a time might come when he would wish he had said otherwise, for now he was glad to give it up.

"Are you sure Thranduil was the last to possess Laeraniel's knife?" Faeldaer asked. He had asked the same last night, but Legolas's answer had not changed.

"I cannot say with certainty that it had remained in his care since last I saw him, but I know he kept it with him before that time," Legolas answered.

Faeldaer shifted, looking uncomfortable, but finally he spoke. "This was a shock to you -- that is obvious -- I truly am sorry." And Legolas believed him. His chagrin was sincere, just as his attempts to right their friendship were real. He could see now that, though the elf had brought him to Mírnen without concern for his fate, he had not meant to do harm. Legolas gazed up into those eyes, flecked with gold and the color of browned butter, and he saw in them compassion and true warmth. He recognized one who cared for him, and he softened. Indeed over time, Legolas had come to forgive. He did not hold the elf to blame. Truly, how could Faeldaer know the harm such a thing that this knife might cause? He recognized the attempt he had made to help and did not feel slighted for the failure within it.

Still, Legolas could not help but smile ruefully as the other added, "But we need yet to speak on it. I think it is clear, after what you remembered, that the knife event was an accident."

It was sick humor, Legolas knew, but he laughed while at the same time his stomach twisted. "Must we?" he asked. "It is now clear that I instigated the event; Thranduil had not set out to hurt me. Can we not leave it at that?"

"More importantly, you saved your father from harming himself. But, no, I do not think we are done with it. I am curious, Legolas; does it not seem odd to you that he would threaten his own life? For it does to me."

Legolas shrugged apathetically. He had not really pushed himself to form any kind of opinion on Thranduil's actions. The prior day's discoveries felt too new. "I have no conception of why he does anything, Faeldaer."

"Perhaps not in recent years," Faeldaer conceded, "but at the time of the incident, did you not find it out of character that he would direct the knife at his own heart? Surely you knew him better in those days. That event led to the beginning of your estrangement. But before that... had he ever acted out in a like way before that particular event?"

"Nay, I have no recollection of any such actions," Legolas answered flatly. He did not see what Faeldaer's point was in asking these questions. He closed his eyes, his head beginning to ache once again. In a whisper he said, "I never should have allowed you to awaken my memory. It was better kept silent." He drew his knees in to his chest and shivered.

"You tremble still," Faeldaer said, rising to drape a nearby coverlet over the elf's shoulders.

"The sun is warm today and yet I am chilled," Legolas murmured gazing out to the day's light as the room grew again to be painted in those vivid amber hues.

"I think it is your resistance that chills you, not the day."

"I suppose my resistance also drives this pain in my skull," the younger elf replied bitterly, unused as all elves to the notion of illness.

"Perhaps it does. But you must admit that you found some relief in attaining a recollection, Legolas. What Thranduil spoke clarified many mysteries," the copper-maned elf said, sitting once more opposite the fair-haired one.

But Legolas was not feeling generous. "He kept my mother in Mirkwood. How can there be clarity in that?"

"If the alternative meant making her a captive of the dark menace, I believe your father felt keeping her in Mirkwood was the kinder deed. I know I do."

Legolas scoffed, hissing his reply. "Kinder? How can you think such?"

"Were you not listening? Think back on it, Legolas."

And here, as much as it pained him, he did. '_She is to be a prisoner here,' _Thranduil had said._ 'Nothing can hinder her journey if she remains here... she would meet worse on the road.' _

Indeed, had he been listening? And then the full of the conversation dawned on him. "Was he speaking of Sauron?"

And Faeldaer nodded. "It is my belief that he was."

Legolas stood then, gaining height in the aura of yellow light. He had long thought it but never really had proof. Now it appeared he had always had what he needed to make the claim but had pushed the evidence away. '_And yet the gifts continued to come. I should have seen the threat remained. The candles...'_

With surprise, he saw now that this particular comment had not been meant to inflict guilt as he'd always thought. In fact it had been merely a statement of fact. What was important was the meaning behind the words. "He had communication with Sauron...! Long past the days of Annatar!"

He felt sick. Suddenly it was very clear to him that it had always been Sauron's intent that Laeraniel fall ill to the sea-longing. "But why did Sauron do it? Why make her the subject of such a fate?"

Faeldaer seemed to follow his thoughts. "Perhaps He meant to teach your father a lesson?"

"What lesson? Why?" Legolas found an impenetrable lump in his throat choked him. The air felt stifling and his chill disappeared, shifting suddenly to feverish heat. His mother had been a victim of Sauron! And though he'd always felt his father aligned somehow with that menace, never had he conceived his mother was directly meant to be a victim of that evil!

"You once told me that, prior to the gifts, you had watched warriors marching off to the south, that you had admired them."

"They fought off the darkness invading our lands," Legolas replied. '_Long had I obeyed... I could not imagine the threat remained. I thought He was gone. There was peace.' _And then he stared at Faeldaer as the truth became evident. "Sauron was punishing Thranduil! He was punishing him for sending warriors in to do battle against Him!"

Faeldaer nodded. The response stunned Legolas, for it was as if the Mírnen elf had known this all along and had only been waiting for Legolas to uncover the secret on his own.

Testing this thought, he asked aloud, "Yet how did he know? Thranduil said he had been warned. How did they speak?"

Faeldaer rose, and here he crossed the room, walking to the copper screen. His silhouetted form made it appear as if he spoke from within the veil of a draping willow. "You said you had seen a flash of amber when you had been fighting Thranduil for the knife."

Legolas thought about this. In his mind he picked up the glint of gold amidst the struggle. And then as he focused on the memory, he began to see it with more clarity. The flash of gold became a ring, heavy and hard-edged in its design. The stone was square-cut with beveled levels causing the jewel to flash brightly. And in the next instance, the ring was gone.

'_My Passion had spoken it so, but I chose not to listen... Deny Passion... It will pass to you, but do not wear It'_

"His Passion?" Legolas asked, putting the name to the gem.

"Another gift, I would assume," Faeldaer seemed to guess, shrugging.

Legolas shivered again though it was not for the temperature of the room. He felt weak. His heart was pounding and it felt like he was being squeezed about the chest.

In profile, Faeldaer spoke. "You had said you were ready to forgive your father. Might you not consider doing just that?"

"Even now?" Legolas asked, gasping, finding it difficult to speak.

"Especially now. He attempted to kill himself, so great was his guilt."

"Perhaps that too was forced on him by the Ring," the younger suggested, feeling awash in desperation. Suddenly he cared very much why his father had threatened to take his own life.

"Perhaps," Faeldaer affirmed.

Legolas could only shake his head, speaking his thoughts aloud as he reasoned this newest discovery. "In the end I did leave him. I joined the warrior troops and went off to do battle with the foe responsible for my mother's death. Why was he not punished for that?"

"Perhaps he was? Perhaps your life was constantly under threat," the shadow answered.

'_He would have you both should you take her and then where would I be? I should strike this knife into your heart before I would allow that! You will not leave my constant vigil!'_

And with that, all those long years of sought achievement and his father's attempts to hinder them flashed into Legolas' mind. "I could have won! Had he given me the means, I could have beaten the menace!"

"You do not know that. You do not know what was threatened. You have met Sauron, at least in the dreamed recollection of my encounter. He was a powerful nemesis. He controlled in a way that was terrifying." Legolas remembered being forced to his knees before the Dark Lord and how frightened he had been. "And now we know your father had a Ring. Sauron had control of him, in some ways at least. Your father fought him, I am sure. But I think what Sauron did to your mother was a subtle reminder that He could do harm, even from afar. In the end, his denial of your requests for means to fight, his demand that you serve in his courts, his refusal to let you part for the Undying Lands ... dare I mention the forced marriage? I think Thranduil sought only to keep you safe."

"He let me go though," Legolas reminded. "I joined the warrior forces as soon as I recovered."

"I am sure he was pressed to disallow it. But I am also certain that letting you go was Thranduil's means of fighting Sauron, telling Him he would not give in to the dark, painful as letting you go was."

"Would that he could be consistent in his resolve. He fluctuated in his decision over the years," Legolas grumbled.

"Are any of us consistent truly? Day in and day out, it is hard to maintain that kind of fight."

Legolas thought back on the fight he had waged against Sauron when reliving Faeldaer's encounter. He tried to imagine doing that regularly. And Legolas had _not _been wearing a Ring when he had done this. Had he donned the Ring as Sauron had demanded, his will might have been lost. He felt a terrible agony as he realized the price paid by his father. He did not understand fully, but he understood more now than he had. "I do not know what I can offer in reply," he softly said.

"Forgiveness," was the single word answer Faeldaer gave.

Legolas looked into those eyes once more. They met him from the distance of the room, but the color was vivid despite the space, bright, honey-hued. It was the same shade as the gem that echoed in his memory, but Legolas could see the difference between the two. The stone had been cold, hard, whereas Faeldaer's eyes were genuine and etched with kindness. The elf walked the space between them and placed his hand on Legolas's shoulder, and the younger felt that here was a friend. A friend.

He weighed what was being asked of him as he turned and stepped to the table where Faeldaer had placed the knife. He slid open the drawer and saw there the knife. It was innocent, this tool. It had nothing to do with any of what Legolas felt. It was just an instrument, a device. And thinking that, he touched it, brushing his fingers against the cool blade. He lifted it, weighing its heft as it balanced in his hand. Again, the golden light shone off its clean edge.

"Forgiveness," he repeated. And then he reflected on what he was being asked to do. Was it in him to forgive Thranduil for the harm he had done?

Before he could answer he needed to ask if Thranduil had indeed intended to hurt. All along he had thought it so, but now... perhaps too his father had been manipulated and pushed into actions he had not intended. Perhaps the harm had come as a result of the tainting force of that Ring?

"Why do you think he kept It?" he asked. He did not turn but instead watched the light gleam across the blade in his hand.

"The Ring, you mean?" Faeldaer asked as he walked to Legolas's side. He did not wait for affirmation as he answered. "It would not have been easy to relinquish. We made It, you know, and wielded well, It could be powerful and of benefit. It was Sauron's influence on It that made it ill-used and an instrument of harm."

The reminder that the Mírnen elves had made the many Rings struck Legolas. It somehow seemed incongruous that these kind and gentle folk, these elves he had come to befriend and indeed love, could be manipulated to do such harm.

But then he thought, could he forgive _them _this act? His answer was immediate. Glancing again at Faeldaer, he saw a friend. Of course he could forgive. And extending that, he tried to see Thranduil's reasoning. The Ring had been given to him by Annatar, not Sauron. It had been given to him by one he thought was his friend. Had he suspected a betrayal? Could he even have conceived such a thing?

To answer this, he had to put himself in a like position. If he received a gift from Gimli, from Aragorn, would he suspect dark intention emanated from it? From Faramir? Eomer? Galadriel? Would he turn away from the generosity offered him by Faeldaer? Truly, would he suspect all around him as sinister when all he had seen of them was kind and unblemished? Over and over, he realized he would have to be derelict with foreboding to deny them his trust. Was Thranduil evil? No, he was not. He saw it now. The only thing the elf king was guilty of was trusting.

"Annatar was your friend, was he not?" he asked.

"I only knew him to be Sauron when he revealed himself to me in the end. Until then, I thought him my friend," came the answer. It was what he thought. And with the reply, Legolas knew.

He nodded his head. The answer to the question asked of him was clear. Though he did not speak the words, he gave his affirmative. Could he forgive? Yes, this time he believed he could. This time he thought his feelings true.

Faeldaer once again placed a hand on Legolas's shoulder. The young elf had not watched for the movement, but he anticipated it -- in fact, wanted it. He did not shiver with the unasked touch, did not tremble from the contact. There was neither chill nor heat in the room. Something of contentment moved over him and he pressed his body into the comfort offered. He turned to gaze into amber eyes and he was calmed. He settled into the warmth of his friend's smile and for once he felt whole and healed.

**TBC**


	48. Ripples on the Water

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Seven: Ripples on the Water**_

He was resting in the grass, his brow down and cushioned by fisted hands. He took in the sweet scent of the greens beneath him, finding nourishing renewal in the verdant growth. He smiled.

In the distance he could hear the elves singing through their tasks as they worked in the village center. Their duties were varied and yet they sang in unison as if their jobs were united. He loved this about the way their work progressed.

Nearer still, he could hear Faeldaer, sitting some yards distance from him, humming with them. For Legolas, he might have joined with them except that he was enjoying the sound of their music too much. It had healing qualities equal to that of nature's scent.

He rolled to his side allowing his eyes to fix on the lake and accompanying shore. He lay in the grasses on the platform hill surrounding the water. The sun lowered itself in the sky. Warm light painted a golden halo over everything, alighting midges and hairflies that danced upon the heated air. His ears told him that Faeldaer rose from the grass, still humming, and strolled in an opposing direction. The whisper of cicadas sang in choir to his steps, ratcheting and then resonating in the hollow of the forest. The cheery converse of birdsong and the crackling chime of leaves echoed the sound as they brushed against one another overhead. And then the steps of the other faded and Legolas was left alone in the beauty of this nature.

A small circle caught his eye as it emerged on the water surface, breaking the glassy plane and radiating outward into a larger ripple before fading to become part of the mirror surface once more. Two more circles followed, and he noted that the water seemed to shimmer as it was displaced, as if unsettled by the natural pull to be both still and fluid. With his keen eye he could see the fish hovering just beneath the surface of the water, waiting in a small school and further, along the shore near the tall reeds and cattails, he saw more. They waited, predators to the insects that hovered above the water's surface even if they were but innocent and unassuming to his eyes.

Across the water, he could see with his discerning eye the elves at work on the other side of the willowy screen. The leafy, draping branches of the trees concealed the community circle, hiding it from eyes that might not know them. He mused at the trickery of the trees that hid these people. In the days when Mírnen's stealth was most dire, the elves would have been camouflaged well. Now the trees only served as a wall to a people who longed to be known and could not be.

They could have sheered the curtain, he thought, opening the light so that it might pool in. Yet the elves would not dare prod the trees of that isle to move to another place or duty. The willows had life and purpose and Legolas could sense the deep resolve in their woody souls to protect the residents. Some things did not change, could not change.

Still, other things did. He could see the demarcation in the water that indicated the rice paddies they had come to grow there. And on the far side of the lake he could make out the cleared lands that had become fields for their use. Many crops now grew there, more than plenty to keep them fed and clothed. Here Legolas thought that had they access to commerce with the outside world they might have been able to trade their foodstuffs for other goods. But it was only a fleeting wish. Many elves before them had lived a cloistered life set away from the company of the world. They were self-sufficient in their efforts, and what they lacked in material goods they learned to live without. Crafty as they were, the elves of Mírnen were almost clever enough to spin cotton so fine as to resemble silk. It was enough for them, and for him, and he eschewed all notions of longing for better things. He was grateful for what was before him.

Yet had he not longed, they might not have more. Were it not for him mustering the trees to help create the fields, the elves might still be weaving hemp cloth for their dress, and _that_ could not be spun so fine, no matter how clever the weaver. Had he not acted, they might still be living on a diet of simple vegetation and meager rations of meat. It was true that elves did not require much to live and it was seldom that their bellies ever rumbled with hunger pains, but when nature provided well for them they could eat with as much relish and exuberance as a Hobbit. And with nothing but time and space theirs to claim, why should they not make use of what they could grow, hunt and forage?

And still, he did long for things beyond. He wondered at times of the tidings of the outside world and what Aragorn might be doing or thinking. He wondered if the absence of one Legolas the Elf had been queried or if it had been assumed he had gone on to the Undying Lands as he had hinted to his mortal friends. Were it not for his companionship with Gimli, that indeed might be what others had thought. But unlike him, his stout friend did have family and friends who would miss him if they knew he had survived the war. He worried that they did not and that saddened him, not only because none would know of their plight but also because a warrior should not fade into obscurity. Gimli should be mourned in a proper manner by his kind.

They had chosen to travel though, and with that there were risks. It would be impudent to believe one could live a rugged life in the wilds and not be exposed to chance harms. Any Ranger worth his scruffy beard or the dirt beneath his nails knew that piece of wisdom. Unfortunately he had foresaken the warnings of his heart and had ventured into danger out of a curiosity that verged on vengeance. Thranduil, in his own strange way, had brought Legolas to Mírnen. But it was Legolas' feet that had traveled here, and he could no longer put fault to his sire for actions he had taken. Were he miserable enough he could have put blame upon Thranduil for every harm he saw in the world. With his time though, he was coming to see that the actions of one created a myriad of ripples outward. It was impossible to take back the stone tossed in the water. Instead, like a leaf on a lake's mirrored surface, one must ride destiny out and see where it might take you.

He knew this. He understood this; his life in Mírnen had been created by the stone he had tossed. He and Gimli had taken a chance; they had lost. These were the lessons learned and in the most painful way, but Legolas knew now not to be so cavalier. Was that not something Thranduil had warned of? That he had feared for him? He understood this now of his father and were he somehow loosed from his keep at Mírnen, he would take what he knew and apply it; life could not be taken for granted. His heart still stung, but at least he could use this knowledge. He could heal himself with it, and that of his feelings toward his paternal kin.

And more, he had found in these lessons qualities within himself he had not known he had, leadership foremost among them. That pleased him. He now had a confidence that proved he could build a community with bare little. Those were the ripples on the water his stone had created.

He rolled to his back taking in another aspect of the world as he gazed upon the deepening blue of the sky. The sun was parting and had lowered itself to the powdery heights of the mountains, casting them in shadows of pink, orange and blues, all alit so they had a fiery quality to them. The contrast made the sky ever richer as stray billows of white danced the surface. The clouds were few but what there was of them were dense and tightly formed.

His gaze fixed on one formation above and he entertained himself watching the subtle shaping and reshaping progress before his eyes. Feathery edges curled in and out upon themselves, slowly moving and coalescing to become shapes recognizable by an eye eager to imagine them so. The cloud formed the shape of a tree with a thick, rugged trunk, massive and heavy. It expanded from there into a round head of branches and leaves. Constantly shifting, moving, breaking, he mused that this representation was much like its living counterparts; trees were never really still.

And then he watched as a formation broke off from the tree and slowly he could see it take shape. He smiled softly as it became a leaf to his eyes, drifting away, still a tandem link to the tree, but independent as well. It floated in the blue sky, highlighted by the warm light of the descending sun.

He watched as the leafy cloud rolled in the winds from high above. He could not see those gusts but their effects were visible, putting the leaf in motion just as they were the tree. Drifting, seemingly listless, but constantly changing. The shapes were reforming, but he held to what his heart wanted them to be. Tree and leaf. Leaf and tree.

"_Legolas?"_

His name was whispered from a distance but he could hear it as clearly as if a bell had been rung at his ear. He dared a glance at his companion, looking over his shoulder to spy Faeldaer chatting quietly with another elf some many yards away. But the call had not come from that direction.

"_Legolas."_

The word came again, and he sat up so he might see who it was that addressed him. He nearly laughed and cried in joy when he saw who it was. Simultaneously he could feel his heart plummet with guilt and abject sadness. "Gimli," he answered as he gazed upon the image of his friend.

It had been months since he had last been visited by one of these visions. He had thought he had put them to rest when he and Faeldaer had visited Gimli's grave together. But then he considered his thoughts from a moment before and decided the vision should not startle him. He had been feeling remorse and regret; the result had brought forth his friend. "I conjured you," he softly admitted. "I should know better."

But the vision of Gimli did not seem to hear him and was instead furtively spying Faeldaer as well as the rest of the landscape. Legolas nearly laughed at the covert manner of the dwarf. It was completely unexpected, this stealth action. And then even more surprising, Gimli darted toward him. The dwarf had never moved like this before in the apparitions; always had he been but a silent observer. But this time Gimli was coming to him and he was not sure what to think. He zigzagged forward in a low line, as if trying to hide from sight.

Legolas could not help from laughing then. He chose to be pleased by this visit. "Bless the curls in your beard, Gimli! I have missed you," he gasped when the stout creature drew up.

But Gimli did not laugh or even appear pleased when he was near. _"Remain still, my friend,"_ he said. _"I am about to get you out of here."_ The vision reached out for the elf, and though Legolas could not feel his touch, he could almost sense the heat of his hand.

Oh, how many times had he longed for this, to hear such a thing, to believe he could be freed? But that was before, years past. Had this vision come to him then, when he had still sought escape, he might actually believe it real. But now... now he knew for his own peace, it was best to reject what his mind was presenting him. Gimli was not real.

"I do not need your help," Legolas said, resisting the impulse to draw the dwarf into an embrace; he would never feel it and he had not the heart to experience such regret. "I am happy," he stated.

"_Hush,"_ the dwarf murmured as he gazed again past Legolas. _"They are coming and the Ents will take command here. We're here to free you."_

Again, Legolas could not help laughing. "It will not help," he said, admitting something that seemed silly to speak. He was justifying what he already knew. "The forest could be hewn to mere stumps and we would not know it here. But there is no need of rescue. I am well."

"_You look wretched,"_ the dwarf succinctly stated, his voice sounding like it came from the other side of a distance.

Legolas could not have imagined such a response and it startled him into a new bout of laughter. "My thanks for your kindness," he replied when he could. He considered responding with a retort; would have been what he would have done in a time before. But now he knew he would only regret any mocking retort. Instead he decided he must dissuade the vision, assuring his heart that all would be well. That was typically what chased these ghosts of his memory away. "I have thought of you often, Gimli. We have labored hard, but much has been in tribute to you."

"_I know not what you say,"_ the dwarf said, seeming to brush a non-existent stray hair from Legolas' face.

The elf smiled kindly, gazing upward to the sky as if understanding might be found there. He noticed the clouds had changed form though the leaf remained intact in shape; the tree now appeared like that of an axe. _Of course_, he thought. Would that not also be what he would conjure to create a sense of irony? Just that small detail was enough to confirm for the elf that none of this was real. As he looked at the clouds, he saw that the two were no longer tethered but floated as separate shapes. That seemed appropriate. He inhaled as he looked back to his friend.

"We grew hops and have learned to brew ale," he said, thinking this might please the vision. "I have made hunters of the elves here too. Some even wield an axe as you had taught me to do." He watched the dwarf's face and was surprised that it did not change in reaction to these admissions. "I did these things for you. I am happy here, Gimli, truly. I have made a life for myself in this world."

But the dwarf was not looking at him and was instead gazing past him as if taking a cue from somewhere Legolas could not see. He nodded and said to the elf, _"It is time, Take my hand."_

Legolas began to laugh. How like Gimli this was to attempt freeing him as if he faced some doom. It charmed him though of course he could not take it seriously. It was just a vision, a dream, nothing of reality. He knew this, for Gimli had not aged. A half century had passed, but the dwarf was still the same.

"Legolas? Is all well?" Faeldaer asked from the distance.

Legolas turned, waving his friend away. "It is nothing," he assured. And then he turned to the dwarf. "I am happy, Gimli. This is not necessary."

"_Rock and rubble!"_ his short friend exclaimed._ "Do not counter me, Elf! Open your eyes and take my hand! We must hurry! Now!" _

His voice sounded so far away, yet something of his tone was serious. Apparition or not, the dwarf was not about to brook his arguments. Mustering himself to comply, he sighed and then put out his hand. "It will do no good, my friend. You are naught but a figment in my mind. I would call this a dream except that elves do not -- "

But before he could complete that thought, he started in surprise. He could feel the warmth of a hand in his. And then suddenly the world was spinning and he felt an arm wrapped around him. He could not make sense of direction, but he could hear Gimli's voice from that distant place. _"I have you. I have you."_

A world of pain suddenly enveloped him. His head screamed as a stabbing agony sliced through his limbs. He could not even form words to express his misery. "Ai!" he gasped.

And then he was falling and the world was strange and turned around. He could not trust his eyes for nothing was fixed. A blur of images danced before his eyes and his mind could barely register them.

He could hear voices crying, calling to him, calling to others. The sounds outside him melted into sounds within and he could not discern the difference between them. All he recognized was that the song was shifting and it made his heart momentarily hurt. But then he was relaxing, embracing the change, pushing away the past and accepting the new turn as if it had always been.

He was back, lying in the grass, feeling the sun shining down on him as the birds called and the buzz of insects sang in his ears. He was back, just as he had been, and nothing was different.

Only something was different. Something was not as it had been. But he could not place it.

"Legolas?"

He was gazing up at the sky and the first thing he thought was that the leaf-shaped cloud was gone. The haze in his mind was fading and vaguely he recalled he had felt pain only a moment before. He could discern none of it now. It was as if it had never been.

"Legolas! Speak to me!" It was Faeldaer.

He sat up, feeling the elf's hands upon his shoulders, his breath whispering on his cheek and the touch stirred his heart. He trembled and felt something dormant in his soul tighten as if coming to life. In his mind he heard his thoughts ringing, _I will take what I must. _

"Peace. I am well. Have no worries," Legolas said, turning to gaze into the golden eyes of his friend. The scent of spice was in his hair and the younger elf breathed it in deeply.

"You cried out. I had no idea what came of you." Faeldaer said, concern deep in his voice.

Legolas frowned. "There was Gimli..." he began, running his fingers to his brow, but the reality of that experience seemed vague to him now, fading like a phantom memory. "I think..." He had to put the thoughts together but they did not make sense to him really. "I think I dreamed him."

Faeldaer laughed. "A dream?" Relief was etched in his features and Legolas gazed at his friend, sorry that he had caused the other such a fright.

He laughed as well, emotions warming the constriction within his chest. He loved the smile that greeted him and without thinking, he reached out his hand to touch the face. It was as if the tactile sensation might heighten his enjoyment of the laughter. And then something truly strange welled up from within him. The thought suddenly occurred to him, unbidden, yet seeming so naturally a part of him, it was as if it had always existed in his mind. _I have it within me to make him fall in love with me if I so chose._

The heat of Faeldaer's hands, still about his shoulder and upper arm, burned tingling sensation into his flesh. Legolas could feel his heart beating wildly and a strange excitement settled in his stomach. His cheeks felt hot and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He held his breath as the smile on Faeldaer's face slipped away. But it was replaced by a look of longing that moved the depths of Legolas' soul, and Legolas wanted something then that he had never desired before. He felt then without thinking, the longing taking over his actions. He closed his eyes and his lips parted, compelled forward by no thought, only want.

And then even more surprising, lips met his, soft and accepting. He could not register anything but the rightness of the feeling of the kiss. He found his heart warming, his breath quickening, and he was melting into the sensation, too intoxicated by the feeling to think more. He desired this with a longing that he could never have imagined. It was greater still than even the sea's song. And then the arms about his shoulders tightened, enfolding him so the two were now united chest-to-chest. One hand tangled in his hair; the other roamed down to his waist. Both mouths parted and tongues met in the twining space. He gasped. He sighed, breathless and lightheaded as the kiss deepened and everything he had already experienced doubled. He realized then that his hands too were engaged, reaching up to stroke the strong jaw of the handsome elf with whom he shared this embrace.

They did not part quickly, but eventually they drew away far enough to whisper their thoughts.

Faeldaer spoke first, "I have wanted to feel the touch of your lips for a very long time. I have wanted you. I have wanted you..."

"What stopped you?" Legolas asked, smiling and finding he could not resist the idea of touching the other. He stroked Faeldaer's cheek, relishing the sensation of the velvety skin beneath his fingertips.

"I feared you would not let me," the other confessed. "I love you." And then he leaned in, stealing Legolas' breath away as their lips once again met.

The younger elf sighed, bending in to the kiss. He could not remember ever wanting a thing so great as this. His heart soared while a smile turned up his lips. When next they parted, he whispered, "I did not realize I could feel this way. I think...no, I know... I love you." And saying such made it all that much truer. He _did_ love Faeldaer, and now he knew that long had he felt it.

Faeldaer laughed, pulling Legolas into his arms. "You would have me then?"

All prior thoughts were then gone from his mind and he wanted only this. "Will you have me?" Legolas asked. "I know your heart once belonged to Celebrimbor..."

"Celebrimbor is not here. You are. I love you, Legolas," Faeldaer whispered, and they fell again into a deep kiss. Faeldaer pulled away then, taking Legolas' hand. "Come," he said. "I would share this news if you would allow me."

"Yes," Legolas said, grinning broadly. They would be united then. Such was the unspoken truth among elves when love was realized at last. It was as all the histories said love was to be. Legolas did not think to question it. Instead he decided that if he thought himself happy before, he was doubly so now. He allowed Faeldaer to help him rise and together they ran, laughing and smiling toward the village and their new destiny, his dream of Gimli completely forgotten.

**TBC**


	49. Emissaries of Death

Dark Forest  
_By Anarithilien_

_**Part III: **__**In the Realm of Mírnen  
Chapter Forty-Eight: Emissaries of Death**_

The soft brush of a hand drifted across Legolas' brow and cheek, interrupting his reverie like birdsong filtering through the trees. He gave a muzzy smile to his awakener. In the year since they had pledged their love to one another, each morning was the same; the gentle touch of Faeldaer roused him to a happy new day. And today was to be the best of all new days. His eyes came into focus as his reverie faded and he turned his gaze to fix on the one who had stirred him. Golden eyes returned his smile.

"Arise, sleepy one. The day awaits you. You have not forgotten its meaning, have you?"

"Forget? How could I forget?" Legolas chuckled as he stretched. They were to be united this day and his rest had been filled with his imagining of the occasion. Legolas could not remember ever feeling so happy. He smiled like a fool as he drew his love to him. The sheer joy of his anticipation roused him. "I love you," he whispered into Faeldaer's ear.

"And I love you," came the tender rejoinder as gentle lips grazed past his cheeks. He felt he could have made their union complete right there, so great was his feeling.

But the beat of his heart was quickened as he winced to a wrench of pain that suddenly shot through his leg like an electric current.

"Not today. Not today," he hissed.

"Relax, my love. Relax, relax," Faeldaer said as he drew the cup away and brushed cool fingers over Legolas's brow. "It will subside. There now, it does already."

And so Legolas did feel the ache lessen.

He breathed, and though the pain initially engaged him, its diffusion came quicker when he accepted it and let it run its course. He nodded as his tension softened and his muscles eased. "It abates now," he sighed and looked up to the worried brow of his soon-to-be lover.

Faeldaer's mouth worked into a straight line, his fingers again combing Legolas's brow, but this time they lingered, as if pausing to register signs of fever. Legolas reached up and took the hand in his own, drawing it to his lips as he said again, "I will be well."

"I worry still."

"Do not," Legolas said, stilling as he began to feel normal once more, and then he pushed the topic away by asking, "Is it late?"

"I do not understand this," Faeldaer said, ignoring Legolas's attempt to change the topic.

"No one does," Legolas shrugged. "Let us just push past it. This day is too great to let this small thing mar it. You make me happy, Faeldaer. I wish not to linger on something that has become a commonplace occurrence."

And the elder smiled broadly, his concern fading with the younger elf's recovery.

Still, it was a concern to them both, the continued pains and more, the increase in their occurrence. It had progressed in this one year from merely occasional aches to near daily bouts. They both knew the growing torment did not bode well. They had yet to find the reason for the pain. Outwardly, nothing marred him. Old scars had long healed over. Yet each time it came, the pain was like a knife cutting through him. All they did know was that it was no longer about acceptance or confession. Secretly Legolas thought it meant that he might be dying. But he would not say it. He could not.

But then, Legolas felt too Faeldaer understood. And as if to affirm this, the elder nodded as he bent low to kiss Legolas. "I want but to feel my heart merge with yours. Whether we are granted hours of that or years, it matters little, for once we are joined we will be complete and all of eternity will be ours to rejoice within. Physical body or Mandos Halls, nothing can sunder us once this day is done, my love."

"Are you sorry we have not made this union sooner?" Legolas asked.

"We held to a year, as is tradition. Still, I will confess that my heart was certain from the moment you affirmed your feelings to me. I needed no wait period. But whether we held to a day, a month or a year, it mattered little; so long as we are joined, I could want nothing more."

Legolas smiled, relieved by Faeldaer's acceptance and pledge. "Then let us race this day forth. I am eager to meet you in spirit... and in body." He wriggled beneath the other, for the hard contact of Faeldaer's body pressed to his was enticing and it set his loins to fire.

Yet even as he said this, he knew it was really his own body he was pushing. He was tired... so tired... there were recent days when he had difficulty gathering the strength to rise.

Faeldaer brushed his lips across Legolas's brow, wariness once more flitting over his features. But he rose and let the worry fade away with his smile. "The more we occupy ourselves the faster the day will pass. I am needed by the mercer, but I will not leave unless you tell me you will be well," he said.

"I _am_ well," Legolas assured as he rolled to his side, and indeed he tried to convince himself that he was.

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The elves attending him were practically dancing as they made ready for the festival, singing their tunes. They were as joyful as he. And he could understand. He had been witness to soul unions before and the bliss of the couple was completely infectious. And for Legolas now, the happiness of those around him was mirrored back to him. He felt as if his entire life had been a prelude to this day and everything prior seemed trivial and small. He realized it must be so, for the grace of the Valar had made the uniting faer one of the most important events in an elf's life.

The pain was forgotten, kept away through regular sips of Mírnen wine. He was made to eat a small meal and that helped balance the heady powers of the drink. Still, the day drifted by for him as if he floated on a cloud. All about him there was laughter and frivolity, merriment and song. Small speeches and gifts were privately bestowed on him, and as the day wore on more drink and food came forth. Lendelil and Gavelir as well as many of the other wedded elves shared secrets of love with wide eyes and in hushed voices. Legolas felt as if he were a child allowed into the privy sanctum of his elders' counsel. He felt excited and frightened by the anticipatory mood, as if nothing was to be greater than what was to come this day.

His stomach and knees grew weak as he focused on the culminating occurrence, but his friends would not give him opportunity to flee and ruminate alone. Instead, when Darinel commented on Legolas' wan appearance, all mustered, and their festivities were moved to the clearing so that sporting challenges could ensue. Legolas always felt better when he could be active, and glad hands and assuring smiles told him to relax and enjoy what was about him. And so he did for a time, feeling joyous and excited, reveling in the games, even joining some of them.

In a moment between activities he chanced to turn his gaze about him. It was clear from the garlands that decorated the gardens and common yard that this day was one of high spirits and cheer and he realized then that this was the reason his father's kingdom oft celebrated, even when the darkest of shadows hovered. The mood of the people needed lifting, and so long as they were not doomed to dire circumstance, they should celebrate their efforts. Legolas could see then that this festival went far past the event of a wedded union. It was for the people. He smiled then, for that was why they had held to the tradition of waiting as they had. Time meant so little to any of them, but elves held strongly to tradition, and accordingly betrothal was to last a year. That time might be used for the engaged pair to ruminate on their upcoming union, but Legolas knew it was also so family and friends could prepare. He was assured that once the ritual ceremony was performed, the revelry would go on, and he knew that as he and Faeldaer adjourned to act out the final step of their love, the elves of Mírnen would be celebrating still.

"Come, Legolas. We must make you ready," Haethlin urged.

He barely had time to think as escorts took him back to his rooms. There he was bathed in a perfumed soap. And then his hair was washed and combed until it shone. Lastly he was dressed.

He had to admit that the short robe made for him by the seamster was magnificent. He knew that Faeldaer had been responsible for the color, a green reminiscent of the palest sage. The mercer had worked to create a fabric of finest weave, brushed to a sheen likened that of silk, or as near as could be replicated with colony homespun. The cut fit closely, as if melded to the same form as his skin, snugging tightly to his chest with matching leggings sculpted to the shape of his legs. Glancing down, he admired the stitchery that ran down the length of the sleeves, rope braiding wrapped and swirling about the cuff, and he could imagine it painted on his flesh, tendrils and swirls. It was a magnificent garment.

Finishing it was a crown made from simple polished copper, the one precious metal of the colony. It was molded as a circlet formed into a series of leaves the color of autumn foliage. Here too, he knew Faeldaer had been the artist and Legolas could guess there was a like crown adorning that auburn-haired brow.

He stepped out upon the veranda as the last few preparations were completed and the altar was made ready. He was not needed yet and he made use of the few moments of calm that he had yet. He was excited and nervous and wanted just a minute of peace so he might gather himself again.

It was then that he saw them once more, the ghosts of his father and of Gimli.

"What is it, my lord?" Araneth asked when she saw him staring out across the water. Although he was among his friends, it was clear that his eyes alone were able to see the figures on the opposite shore for no one else reacted.

"I just need a moment," he excused, not waiting for her permission to go. She seemed not to be bothered by decision. This day was for him after all.

Alone then, he walked to the rail of the far terrace where he might see his father and Gimli more clearly and speak without seeming mad for talking to invisible beings.

They stared at him but they did not speak. He had doubted they would for they seldom had in the past, and on those few occasions when he had seen their lips move in speech, little had he actually heard of their words. It was as if they lived in another world. And in fact, he knew they did. They were the harbingers of death. He only hoped that they would allow him to finish this day before they came to claim him for good.

He had no desire to join them. Here on the day of his union, he could claim for the first time in his life that he was happy, happier indeed than he could recall ever having felt. For once he was needed; he had a purpose. He was loved.

"Do you come to see me wed, Father?" he called out to the ghost. "Once before you tried to set me on this path that I might fix myself to my home. And this time I shall. I will not stray from those I love. No more do I wander or fight for a greater cause. I have found love and I am happy here. Are you not happy for me, my lord? Can you not leave me in peace? You shall have your wish for me at last."

The visions did nothing. They appeared immobile, whispering only amongst themselves. He could not hear them and he did not want to.

The lightest of touches flicked at the skin of his hand resting on the rail and he looked down to see an insect marching along the rail on which he leaned. He lifted his hand that it might pass, but it had already bridged his skin and he carried it with his movement. Such a small creature could not frighten him and so he did not start. It was a mantis that alit upon his hand, and he lifted it that he might gaze at it more directly. The long, slim insect, golden and brown and nearly invisible except for the contrast to his skin, continued to march, walking the length of his fingers and then down onto the palm of his hand. He looked into the round eyes of the creature as it paused, rubbing its pincers together in some gesture of seeming intellect and cunning.

He looked up again at the visions. And then he focused on Gimli. "Be happy for me, my friend. I feel such joy that you would not know me. Do not ask me to come with you today. In another time I might have followed you, but not now, elvellon. No more. I shall remain here."

And then Legolas lowered his hand so as to let the mantis off, and immediately the small creature skittered away, marching on as it had begun.

"Legolas?"

He turned at the call, recognizing the voice as if it resonated from his own being. But he could not help but to smile at the vision revealed to him.

Faeldaer was brilliant and strong, a copper crown upon his head too, but this one purposely tarnished and made green so as to complement Legolas' attire. His robe was not of the same cut as Legolas' but threads in a like color ran a meandering pattern though the fabric and mated it to the younger's cloth. The style of his suit was equally as flattering to Legolas', only painted in a hue of deepest blue. Having just looked across those waters, Legolas thought the color the same as the lake surrounding their island home.

The warrior-elf smiled at his beloved, knowing what it was Faeldaer came to say. "It is time," he said, not questioning but instead voicing his prescient thought.

The auburn-haired elf only smiled in answer, affirming this fact, and he held out his hand so Legolas might take it. Legolas thought to look behind him to see if the ghosts might witness his ascent, but in the same moment he chose not to, deciding they held no power over him. He would not go with them so their presence was pointless and he would look to them no more, no matter how they might haunt him. He was happy.

They came to the platform then where the ceremony was to be performed, and he stood in his designated place as the words of union were spoken. His eyes were on Faeldaer throughout the ritual event, and in his mind it was just the two of them living this moment; no witnesses did he need. They were being wed.

He felt tremendous delight then, all early worries gone from him. He could not help but admire the beauty of the elf before him, an equal to him in size and build, but wiser and more worldly. An artist, and he, the warrior. Together they were grace, detail, balance and intellect. He never would have imagined them together, but now that their union was about to occur, he could not imagine his life otherwise.

And then the focus turned to him and it was his turn to recite the marriage words. He spoke them, knowing them by heart as all elves did, for they had long been meshed into songs sung at festival times and in moments of thanksgiving. Even from his earliest memories he could recall the words. Yet he focused upon them now with more determination than ever he had in the past, for he meant to feel them with all of his heart as if each syllable had significant meaning that only now would he employee. And he felt them nestle into his spirit. The words were not song anymore; they were evidence of his love. His face hurt as he spoke them, for he realized he was smiling fiercely, with greater feeling than any remembrance he could muster. He felt tears stinging his eyes, but they were glad tears.

Faeldaer did the same as his turn then came and rather than speaking his heart, Legolas listened to the vows, taking them, believing them wholly, for this was Faeldaer's love bestowed to him and he hungered for it.

The ceremony closed with the drinking of wine from a shared cup, a symbol that the labors and therefore the bounties of their union were to be combined and consumed together in equal parts. There was little more to the actual ceremony beyond that, but every elf surrounding the pair donned sly smiles, for they knew what was to come in solidifying their bond. And laughing as the reader closed out the ceremony, Legolas advanced upon Faeldaer, not waiting for the permission to be granted that they might kiss. He simply did it. Kiss. He could not help himself, he was that happy.

And Faeldaer responded in kind. Lips slightly parted, warm and tender. He met Legolas and the two locked into a tender exchange. They broke as the music started, and immediately glad hands were upon them, congratulating them and wishing them good fortunes. They were both turned and pulled, and the whole of the crowd pressed upon them. But rather than be pushed apart, Legolas felt Faeldaer's hand within his own, warm, meant to keep him. They would not be separated. And again, Legolas could barely contain his joy for he longed for this touch.

As the festivities began, Legolas knew it was time for them to break away. The celebration was for the others and they would not be begrudged. It was Faeldaer who initiated the next step, squeezing Legolas' hand and leading him across the terrace, up the stairs and back to the flet that Legolas had grown accustomed to in his many visits to the elf lord over the years. This too was to be his, and he admired once again the belled sound of the canopy that screened their shared abode. It felt secluded, secure from unwanted eyes, and yet open to the world.

And once within the place, Legolas advanced, just as he had at the ceremony's end. He wanted the touch of Faeldaer, suddenly feeling impassioned and consumed of a yearning he did not know he possessed. He could sense the Song in Faeldaer, and as if some kind of magic drew him, he felt he must hear It, feel It. This time there was no modest temperance in his action. His lips hungered for the taste of his beloved and he would have it. Faeldaer was compliant, willing in kind, but after a moment, it was as if he too found the fire that now burned in Legolas and his mouth met Legolas' kisses with equal passion.

With eyes closed, Legolas surrendered himself to the sensation. Warm arms wrapped around him and drew him comfortingly close while Faeldaer's lips trailed over his face, his throat. He rolled his head back, exposing himself, he knew, but he felt utmost certainty that this was right. And tenderly, passionately, Faeldaer layered kisses there, drawing further heat into the younger elf's heart, and now his loins. Legolas mustered a sound, a laugh, and simultaneously a moan. He had never heard such an uttered noise pass his lips, but this too seemed as meant by the Song. It beckoned for more a chorus of response.

He opened his eyes, regaining sense enough of himself to notice his breathing had quickened and that the fingers of one hand were tangled in Faeldaer's hair, caressing the juncture between head and neck. The other hand was pulled about his beloved's waist, pulling him near though he did not recall moving either to these places. And again he laughed, overwhelmed by the joy of his unguided reactions. This felt so very right. He could not imagine now why he had been so worried, for he could feel the Song of Faeldaer easily mingling in the notes of his own. Perhaps this is where the fae rested, in Song. And he knew that in the act, so long ago with Ethariel, he had noticed nothing of Song in it.

He wanted to ask Faeldaer the same -- if in his union with Annatar, when he had been duped into believing him Celebrimbor, had he had heard Song? But the words did not pass his lips, for when he looked at Faeldaer, he saw the elf studying him, drawn away, as if he suddenly were overwhelmed by a contemplation of his own. Legolas met his eyes, looked into his face. Faeldaer's expression was a war of emotions and Legolas grew confused, even afraid. He saw sorrow, worry, and ... something else. He found his own brow furrowing as he pondered what it was his love felt. But then he relaxed suddenly as he realized what it was he was seeing. Hunger. Desire. Lust. His breath caught in his throat. Such a thing -- it was powerful! He leaned back, feeling bowled by the passion that just a look could provide.

The hesitancy instantly faded from the elf lord's face. Lips parted and a heavy sigh passed those rose-colored lips while a wanton light shone in those golden eyes, and Legolas felt such a yearning pass unto him like the course of a raging fire, a fevered disease. He found his heart pounding in answer to that gaze, desire causing the heat to rise in his breast. And further, he felt his belly constrict, the ache of wanting passing into his lower regions. He suddenly felt too warm, too covered in constricting clothes and not nearly as close as he wished to be to Faeldaer's skin and fingers.

As one they then acted. Fingers danced over fabric and fastenings and loops, flying to free each other from the bounds of their garments. Legolas lost track of his body, only knowing his breath came quicker, that his lips desired touch and heat, that his hands could not be stilled. Their bodies became a tangle of movements, a dance of strokes running the length of limbs. There was a frenzied pulse underlying it, a tempo, as if they moved in a choreographed pattern dictated by the chorus of the Song Legolas still heard. It was faster now, gaining speed, and it matched the measure of the constrictive yearning he could feel building.

Soft moans mingled into their breaths. He knew not which sounds were his and which were Faeldaer's. Yet no matter who uttered them, they heightened his desire, pressing his urgency further. All his senses were heightened and all were focused toward this one cause. Need overwhelmed him. Need for what, he did not even question.

He had no idea how he had come to be upon the bed until he was already there. He had no idea how he and Faeldaer had been divested of their clothes until he realized his fingers were stroking flesh, and hands in kind where running a rhythm over his. He had no idea of anything except that he was tasting skin and feeling soft ridges and hard flesh with the sensitivity of his lips. He had no idea of anything except that the pressure and heat of a body were pinning him and that he liked it, liked the feeling of flesh pressing flesh in this way. He had no idea of anything except that the sounds of their breathing, conjoined and panting, aroused something primitive and unbridled in him. He had no idea of anything except that he longed to curl his fingers around anything he might reach, that like the actions of battle, his body moved as if in muscle memory, and he must pull whatever he found inward to him.

And the Song... the Song radiated, resounding loudly with such fervor that he could feel it resonating into his very bones. At first he knew not where It originated, but then he realized It came from him... from him...

It grew, progressed, and it began to envelop him. He could feel vibrating through his every limb, down to his toes and up into the crown of his head. He laughed, knowing it stemmed from his heart and opening his eyes, he saw Faeldaer grinning madly at him.

"Now is the time," he said, and Legolas thrilled with the knowledge that now they would truly be united. Rapture blazed in Faeldaer's eyes, and that was all Legolas needed to push him over the edge. He closed his eyes and let the words ride over him. "Now you will belong to me and your soul will merge with mine. Give yourself over. Let it go.... let it go..."

And so saying, Legolas felt himself relinquish, his heart feeling as if it might explode for the ecstasy of his release. Rigid muscles convulsed and simultaneously calmed, and tranquility moved over his body, stilling him like a drug. He had done as had been asked of him; he had given. He had surrendered his soul, dedicating it to his love, his life... to Faeldaer.

And the nourishing love that was given back in return...

He waited for it.

He waited for it.

But there was nothing.

It was not there. _It was not there!_

He gasped in the absence, opening his eyes to question the loss. "Faeldaer," he whispered. But there was no one there.

He was alone, in a wood, lying half-buried in a thick muck of leaf and decay. The canopy over his head was brown, dead.

"Where...?" he cried out, a whisper of sound, strength absent from the voice. It was all he could muster for words, for he felt such weakness that he knew with certainty there was little keeping him.

His head fell to the side, and he could see others running, coming. Thranduil and Gimli, and many more, running upon the surface of a violent water, a raging sea. They were racing to him. Once again he thought of them as emissaries of death, seeking him out to drag him into the abyss of nonexistence. And then the song of the sea raged in his ears, exploding thunder, and with a sudden ache in his heart so consuming that he felt crushed... as if all the earth pressed down on him, buried him... he thought he should just accept them. His father and his friend. He should welcome them. He could take no more.

But what of Faeldaer?

"My love..." he whispered, feeling a tear leak from his eye and slide down the side of his face.

He closed his eyes, fatigue overwhelming him. He felt none of the replenishment he had expected to feel and realized a heart-wrenching misdeed had been done to him... such cruelty. He felt illness, weakness, pain. And he was being dragged down into it. It was a weight, heavy, cold. It smothered him, but he had no strength to fight it. _Faeldaer? Where are you? Please, I need you. _

With no answer to his heart, he surrendered himself to the weakness that claimed him, the heaviness of body and limb, the cold chill of his body. He had no fight. He was spent lost in all, including his soul. He tried to gasp for air. _One last breath,_ he thought. But he could find none. He was devoured by the earth, sucking him down and he could feel his nostrils, his mouth, his throat, being filled with it. There was no air. No air, and he could not breathe... Could not breathe...

Could not breathe!

And then... pushing, fighting, he struggled! He had to push away! He was being buried. He was being buried alive!

He fought to find air. He fought... but could not breathe...

His movements stilled, so little strength did he have. Air... he tried ... he needed... And then... then...

And then he did not.

**TBC  
End of Part III.**

**A/N:** My dear friends, I owe you an apology for making you wait so long for this chapter. It has been sitting on my desk for a while now; I promised myself I wouldn't release it until I had the chapter that follows done. Unfortunately, I don't, so clearly I broke my promise to myself but I really didn't want you to wait anymore (Merry Christmas?). My problem now is finding time and inspiration to write more. The muse is being difficult, as is work. So please be patient with me as I try to unbury myself and whip some life into the monster that created this monster. I'll post more as soon as I can. (In the meantime, reviews are almost always a good means of revving up the creative juices. _--grin!--_ )


	50. To Be Redeemed

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story and is hopefully still up to reading...It's been a while since my last update. Thanks also to those who have added my name to your Favorites List. That means so much to me, encouraging me to go on with this story. This chapter is for you!

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Forty-Nine: To Be Redeemed_

Gimli turned from the kill before him. In his sidelong gaze he saw the next orc charging, arms raised with spear being thrust in two hands. Using his short stature, he ducked the blow, and with a quick turn dug his knife into the ribcage of the oncoming orc. The creature's choked scream, bubbling and strangled, told him the injury had done damage enough, and he turned his gaze again, looking for the next orc to attack while he ripped his knife away.

As expected, another wild creature came forth, scimitar in its upraised arm, reaching its swing so it might sever Gimli's head. The dwarf's knife was too short to hold back such a blow, but Gimli was adept and quick. He sidestepped as he sought out the previous orc's weapon, for in his mind he could visualize the entirety of the scene about him. His movement threw the orc off-balance; it had not anticipated his action. _Such is the advantage when battling orcs,_ Gimli thought._ They are so young and untried that they have not enough experience to surmise their enemy's next move._

Using this momentary advantage, he bent for the spear. This too was what experience brought the dwarf; he did not have to turn his eyes away to find the weapon, he had marked it when it had been dropped. Now he merely had to reach, retrieve it, and bring the shaft up to block the orc's blow. And then still maintaining his grasp of the spear, he drove the point blade into the creature's gut, the movement so fast it had come on the repercussion of the scimitar swing. The orc's eyes widened, stunned by the piercing, but it did not drop its blade and Gimli saw the fight was not yet gone from it. Gritting his teeth and yet holding his elven knife, he pushed the spear deeper, growling madly in his eagerness to end this monster. And then the scimitar fell and the creature's hands came to grope at the shaft. Too late to halt its thrust, the orc watched Gimli with clouding eyes as the dwarf continued his impalement. Gimli saw the life flee but did not think on it. Already another orc was diving for him.

And so he pushed the orc body off him, using it as a shield for the oncoming assault. The dropped scimitar became a weapon just as the spear had been and he continued in his fight, lopping off limbs and driving whatever weapons he might find into the more vulnerable places of the orcs that came. He did not think much on the world just then, did not consider his own injuries or weakness, did not wonder at the sound of horses' hooves sounding all around him. He was alive with vigor, battle fury driving strength into him. It wasn't until he had dispatched several more of the creatures that he was given time enough to glance around and take in the greater of his environment.

That was when he saw what had come. Or more correctly, who had come. Elves of the Galadhrim were engaged, dancing in and out of the battle, riding upon mighty chargers. It appeared to Gimli then that the bright light of the sun shone off of them, blinding and beautiful as if a blazing star crested upon each of their brows. The light dimmed as his eyes adjusted to their presence, but he could discern among them two who maintained their bold glare. Celeborn and Galadriel, swords raised and mighty, drove through the masses of orcs, their weapons fire upon the black masses of Sauron's loathsome dreck.

Gimli gasped in wonder at the beauty of their battle, his own part in it seeming to end as the monsters fell away, swarming and crumbling beneath the elves' fearsome blows. He had seen Legolas fight, of course, and had been amazed at his friend's fierce grace. But never had he seen the coordinated efforts of an entire elven battalion. It was like watching birds joyously diving and rising in their flight, or like leaves that twine in and out of the tree limbs. _They are feathers dancing on the wind_, he thought as he watched the swift fight. _Deadly though_, he amended as he saw Celeborn's blade neatly dispatch the head of what might have been the orc leader.

But then his gaze was torn away instantly by the cry of one elven voice, markedly distinct among the wretched grunts of the villainous folk. Seeking out the cry, he turned to see Thranduil fighting off a horde of orcs. Blood was seeping from a gash at his shoulder, and his knees faltered though he remained aright, fighting with deft moves, matching strike for strike.

Yet, the orcs overwhelmed him and the elf was tossed with the next blow. Gimli cried out, leaping to Thranduil's aid as an orc kicked away at the fallen elf. His knife plunged into the creature's back and it immediately dropped to the ground like a sack of rocks.

Suddenly another was on him, and then another, and he could no longer concern himself with the elf. His knife somehow was loosed from his hand and he was staring into the blackened face of a dreadful fiend. Hands came to his throat, and Gimli's matched the move, strangling as he was being strangled.

He expected the fight to be his last, but with a howl the orc released him, arching back as a blade ruptured his chest. The orc fell away and Gimli glanced up. Celeborn's sword came free, blackened with the orc's blood, but he saluted him with it all the same, nodding to him from the seat of his horse.

He turned then to see elves fighting off the remainder of the foul creatures that had been upon Thranduil and he saw he was no longer needed. Still, he noted the king did not move and he stepped forward in a surge of concern. But again he saw an elf kneel to the king and then he called out, waving the Healer to him.

And then Thranduil stirred, and his eyes turned up to the aiding elf. Gimli rushed to the elf's side, worry that he could not have foreseen drawing him. Thranduil was slowly shifting, his body yet recumbent but his eyes alighting on the last orc that he had fought off. He stilled momentarily, staring, and he seemed to be moved by something the dwarf could not see. His brow furrowed, and then raising his gaze, he saw the dwarf. There was blood on the elf's lips, and Gimli noted that it tinted his teeth as he spoke. Unable to hear the words, he knelt to the ground. Thranduil grasped his hand.

"She asked to be redeemed," he whispered, panic causing his voice to rise.

"What?" Gimli asked, shaking his head in confusion. "Who?"

"She spoke ere she died," Thranduil gasped as his eyes went again to the orc. "'Forgive me, my lord,' she said. By the Valar, she knew me, Gimli! And she wanted me to forgive _her_!" It seemed an earnest thought, almost a plea, and Thranduil squeezed Gimli's hand. The dwarf did not know what he was speaking of, but he did not pull away. It was almost as if the elf were speaking his own askance for forgiveness and Gimli was moved enough to give it.

The elf's eyes closed and Gimli frowned in worry. Suddenly more elves were there and in a flurry of activity, Gimli was pushed away. His grip was pulled away as the Healer began tending Thranduil.

"He will be well, Elvellon," Galadriel said appearing at Gimli's side.

The dwarf gazed up at her. Her beauty never failed to move him but he pushed that thought aside for one of more pertinence. "How did you know we would need your aid?" he asked.

She glanced away, her eyes cast down as she sighed. "I saw it in the mirror." And Gimli understood her remorse meant that events foreseen were coming true. If so, then the fate of Legolas might also come to be.

He suddenly felt the world tilt and his legs seemed to lose all their strength. He stumbled several steps away. "You look pale," he heard her say. Her voice was hollow, as if she spoke from the cone of a bell jar. "Sit and rest." Her hand was upon his shoulder and he followed her command, sinking to the ground.

Celeborn was there then, kneeling at Gimli's side. He said, "You are ill. I will call the Healer."

Everything was spinning, and his stomach was churning. Gimli dug his fist into the grass so as to steady himself, and as he did, his fingers brushed against something hard and cold, and vacantly he closed his hand about it. _A stone_, he thought, finding comfort in that. He bowed his head, dipping his eyes as he fought off the nausea, finding renewed strength. Collecting himself, he raised his hand to the elf. "Call no Healer, please. I will be well," and in saying he felt much improved.

"You shall stay here," Galadriel said, now joining Celeborn. She brushed a hand across his cheek. "It has been a wearying day. Rest and be well. We will set camp and tend to our wounded and you may recover your strength."

Had anyone else suggested he needed rest, the dwarf would have scoffed and given argument, if not a cuffing blow to dissuade such a thought. But coming from the Lady, it was all he could do to keep from smiling, so charmed was he by her concern for him.

"My Lady! My Lord!" an elf called to Galadriel and Celeborn from the vicinity of Thranduil's care and for a moment Gimli thought the elf was indicating something that might be wrong with the king.

Galadriel quieted his anxiety though, giving him a gentle smile. "Fear not." And then she left him.

His eyes followed her as she joined the elf king's gathering. She did not drop down to the ailing elf though. Instead she moved to the other side of Thranduil, turning her eyes down to something the dwarf could not see. Celeborn then joined her and the circle of whispering and pointing elves.

Curious, and feeling renewed, Gimli came to his feet, creeping forward to see what it was they looked at. Two elves lifted Thranduil's now unconscious form and carried him away to the quickly assembled Healer's tent. A small contingent followed, yet the crowd remained. They parted as the dwarf drew near so he might have entrance. He saw then what drew their attention.

An orc female lay on her side at their feet, one arm outstretched and the other fallen across her belly. Her body was half submerged in one of the trenches the creatures had used to hide themselves. An elf stood in the rutted hideaway, his exposed upper torso belying the shallow depth of the hole. He held up an object for all to observe, and Gimli gaped just as the others did ; the elf held a baby.

It was covered in mud, birthed in the hole as its mother had died, or so it appeared. It writhed weakly, legs limply spread while its small arms twitched in time with its bleating cries. The cord tied it still to the mother who was clearly dead. Gruesome as the thought of an orcish child being birthed here in the wild might have been, Gimli gasped at a notion that was clear for all to see. The baby did not look like an orc. In fact, with smooth skin and small, softly pointed ears, it looked almost beautiful, like an elf child.

Yet at the same time it did not, for its skin beneath a layer of mud was grey and as it cried, Gimli could see a mouthful of pointed teeth. As he drew even nearer, he saw the baby's eyes open; he drew in a quick breath when he saw that they were red like the demons he had just fought off and he felt repulsed by the conflicting feelings within him; a part of him felt pity for this child and another part of him recognized the mark of an undeniable monster.

He met Galadriel's gaze and saw the pain within them. The child was a bastard creature, and he saw her hands shake as she took the newborn babe into her arms. The infant creature squelched out a pitiful cry, lamentable and weak. She crooned to it soothingly, but even Gimli could see the babe had suffered in its birth and it would not strengthen. He watched as Galadriel then knelt, bringing the small thing down to lay in the crook of its mother's arms, positioned right at her chest. Galadriel carefully rearranged the orc female's arms to hold her baby so at least in death she would receive the peace of her burden.

Gimli felt ill anew as he watched the small creature burrow its head, nuzzling at its mother's body. Yet it seemed to have no strength to search further the nourishment it might find there and he knew he was witnessing its death.

"How...?" Gimli asked, catching the Lady's eyes.

"It is born of an elf turned to the dark," Galadriel explained, brushing a strand of hair away from the female's face, studying her. "She was fair once, though those years were centuries ago. What a horror she survived. I sicken when I think what they would have done to her to change her into this."

He whispered his next comment more to himself than to her or any of the others. "So the tales are true then ... orcs are indeed born from the loins of elves."

"Not all," Galadriel said, hearing his words and coming to stand next to him. "To capture and hold an elf long enough for such a transforming to occur is rare. Granted, though her body was capable of much that torment, it was her spirit that kept her alive. She lived through countless heartaches as her soul was mangled. That is what made her like this. Most elves would have surrendered to their heartache and died. Her will was strong to have endured her suffering. But you see what it wrought."

Gimli watched as the baby seemed to stop moving, its small breaths causing its belly to rise and fall. It appeared to be struggling just to breathe. He then looked at the female again. "Where do you think she came from? Thranduil said she begged his forgiveness before she died. Might she have been from the Greenwood?"

"That would be impossible to know with certainty. There have been many elves who fought in the southern forces only to be captured and held at Dol Guldur," Galadriel answered.

"Look," Celeborn interrupted, and the muddy orc infant stilled, its belly rising one last time before a slow withdrawal brought no further breath to it. It seemed to Gimli then that all grew silent and he noted that no one sought to revive the babe though all appeared to mourn.

"He is dead," the elf lord said, breaking the solitude of their gathered witnessing.

Another elf interrupted the moment, quietly approaching and speaking to Celeborn. "My lord, a moment of your attention, please."

Celeborn followed while Galadriel murmured a whispered prayer. Gimli wondered if the words were for the female and child or for her own people and what they had endured. Whatever the words, he hoped some redemption might come for the event. He thought to speak to Galadriel on this, but could not bring words forth to convey his confused feelings. After another minute she parted as well, offering her aid to those elves who managed the horses.

Gimli was left to stand alone, sentinel over the dead. About him, elves began to gather the remains of enemy bodies for the burial, apparently utilizing the holes the orcs had already dug for the task.

Gazing at the grey and lifeless bodies, he felt ill but he knew it was not his ailment that made him feel such. The dead newborn bothered him much. He observed that it had done nothing to deserve its fate. Nothing, that is, except to be born of a dread race. He thought too on the mother, for it seemed she too had been subjected to cruel fortune. Was it her fault she had been corrupted into a mutant strain of her former self? Had she sought out her ruin? He wondered then of both the mother and child's circumstances; had they been given any other option, might they have redeemed themselves of their crime for being so horribly plagued? Could they, given time and patience, been able to override the stigma of being attached to the history of a fell kind? The dead infant looked so innocent in its lifeless form, its features so much like those of an elf. The mother... Gimli could see how once she might have been a lovely thing. And knowing what they were, what their potential might have been, he saw they had been delivered death without cause. Thranduil's words echoed in his mind. _"'Forgive me,' she said."_

Like Galadriel, he said a small prayer.

Gimli was forced to turn away, unable to look any longer upon this thing so akin to an elf. It hurt to think on it and made his stomach churn. He closed his eyes and tightened his hands into fists.

That was when he felt the cold stone still clutched there. He had forgotten it and noted that it had not warmed in the time he had held it. Uncurling his fingers, what he saw when he looked at it surprised him as much as the discovery of the baby. In his thick, calloused palm he held Thranduil's Ring.

Gasping in surprise, he thought to toss it away immediately. _Foul jewel!_ Yet quick wits stayed his action. Frightening as it was to find such a demon bauble right there within the palm of his own hand, he felt it would be worse should he drop It. Such a destructive device found by one not so knowing of the danger... He could not just leave It! The damage that could be incurred by refusing momentary responsibility was not something he wanted on his conscience.

It seemed that just such a thought was enough to stir a modicum of life into the trinket. To his eyes the Ring seemed to grow a subtle radiance, a sheen that made it catch the fading glimmer of the sun. And though he had wits about him that warned him not to be seduced by It, he could not help but admire Its beauty. While in Thranduil's possession, he had not had time to appreciate It. But here, now, he could see the intricacies of the setting and how it was mirrored in the facets of the gem.

It did not belong to him though and he would not keep It, but neither would he reveal It. He closed his hand around It, like one might shroud a secret, and his utmost thought was that he must return It to Thranduil immediately. Though this gem had created much harm, he did not think he could do better with It, certainly not given Its twisted history. But he noticed also that in that small action, that small moment of thought, the Ring had gained weight and heat, that It now felt heavy in his hand. And then instantly a wave of sensations overwhelmed him.

The shudder of the earth was the first thing he noticed. It was not a tremor, like a shift in the ground's mass, but a constant and steady beat, and as he considered it, he realized what he felt. Footsteps.

_Of whom?_

And just that query was enough that his senses stretched further, and he could discern, almost as if he could hear or even see them, that the makers of this treading pattern were Ents. As if he recalled their steps from his journey to Fangorn, as if he had always known the thrum of their heavy walk, he could discern them like he could his own heartbeat. He could feel it was them, coming, moving across the plains beyond the forest.

_So this is what the Ring offers, _he thought. He could never have imagined as much and he wondered if Thranduil had felt the same. And as he thought this, he understood there was so much more that could be done with It. Beyond this. With mere thought he realized the earth would move for him. With a little more concentration he could discern the minerals in the soil. More, and the metals buried there could be unearthed for his claim.

It was too frightening a thought, and too enticing a thing to hold. He quickly pushed It into his pocket, not wanting It.

_I must return It to Its owner_, he said to himself.

Two elves had come with spades then and more bodies of orcs were being laid in the hole. The burrow the elf-orc female had sheltered in would now be her grave. He thought then that perhaps it would be best if he dropped the Ring into the grave and let It be buried there with her and her child. Evil could then be laid to rest with evil. He shivered.

Gimli felt Galadriel's presence at his side once more. He gazed up and noticed again her riding gear and a broadsword. "You fought," he said simply enough.

She smiled, dropping her eyes as if to note her attire. And then she said, "We are all capable of being more than one thing, my friend," she replied.

"You may don a warrior's garb but you are foremost a lady in my eyes," Gimli responded gallantly.

He had thought she might laugh, charmed by the words. But instead she grew somber, her eyes grave. "Alas, Gimli, I do not deserve the admiration you deliver me. You are kind but not all would agree with you."

"I cannot imagine you as anything but a lady of great worth," Gimli negated. "I never will."

"I have worked hard to redeem past wrongs. I do so still. I hope others might come to regard me as you do."

The act of another body being thrown into the hole drew their attention. The female was yet visible to them and Gimli nodded to her, speaking the thought that had been haunting him. "She was an elf once. I wonder if given the chance she might ever have been returned to her former self."

Galadriel sighed, and her eyes followed Gimli's to the orc, and most especially to the child. They locked there. And then she nodded. "I think there is evil in all of us -- to various degrees. But I think greatness is to be found in most things also, especially when good has somehow touched it. We can all find renewal and redemption if only we might try. I think that is what our true purpose is."

Gimli nodded too, but again the Ring drew his attention and he realized her words held great meaning in many ways. These words did not pertain to just herself, or to the orc, or even to the forgiveness Thranduil sought. They could also be applied to the Ring.

"There is a purpose for everything," she added.

He looked down into the hole as the elves covered the orc bodies with more dirt. He had thought to throw the Ring into it. But now he wondered if he might be wiser to follow Galadriel's advice. Perhaps, given the right circumstances, Thranduil's Ring could be used for a greater purpose. And strangely, he felt this indeed right. The Ring had been forged by Sauron -- true. But it had also been forged by elves, and he knew their intent had been for the good. Sauron was dead. Now, perhaps, the good within the Ring might be found again.

He would try to convince Thranduil as much when he returned the Ring to him.

He reached into his pocket and closed his hand about It. It had been trying to win his grace, and he had seen that, felt that. The Ring might have been tainted, but if an elf-born orc was deserving kind thoughts, should not a Ring partly forged in the spirit good be given the chance to show Its true potential?

He was willing to do that for Thranduil. That, after all, had been what Legolas had been trying to do when they had set out upon this mission. And now the Ring beckoned for the same opportunity to prove Itself. Would he... could he deny It?

TBC


	51. Red and Black

**Dark Forest  
By Anarithilien**

Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Fifty: Red and Black

Thranduil groaned inwardly as he pressed his palm to his brow. His head ached, a deep thrumming pain etched behind his eyes, no doubt the result of the blow he had taken, but that was not the cause of his distress. Injured and with blood yet unwashed from his knuckles, his wounds for the most part had been treated and bound. Before him a Lothlorien warrior-healer finished off the last of the ties. But the elf king was not really paying attention to that. Instead he was focused on his aide, Inirion, who was frantically pacing before him.

"Are you sure it was them?" his loyal valet cried out, despair hanging on the notes of his question as he swept past, the clank of his sword banging against his thigh as he turned.

"The Greenwood cygnet marked the weapons that were found. There is no doubt as to their ownership," Celeborn said. Thranduil's eyes turned to his blood kinsman and he saw the frown marring his normally smooth brow of the ancient lord. It was clear the silver-haired lord was troubled by the news he was forced to deliver as he shifted from one foot to the other. He looked almost apologetic, Thranduil thought, and he wondered if his cousin felt somewhat responsible for the news being delivered.

"But all three? Can you know it was all three of them?" Inirion asked. His head was bowed, clearly not wishing to show disfavor to his king, but denial was also obvious in his reply.

"Inirion," Thranduil said, raising a hand and mustering the greatest of his compassion, "I know your concern is for your brother --"

"Please, my lord, do not speak it!" the young elf pleaded, eyes pinching shut.

Thranduil turned to his cousin, taking up the cause of his man as the ache in his chest matched that to the one in his head. "Celeborn, is there any chance the bodies found are not of the missing scouts?"

Celeborn glanced then to his own lieutenant standing quietly off to one side of the tent. He apparently had witnessed the discovery. His armor shone even in the dim light of the tent, but his finery was marred with the black blood of the orcish band they had fought. The elf shook his head, eyes downcast, and the gesture made it clear such a hope was futile. He spoke, "The bodies were horribly mauled and there is little of recognizable traits to identify them, but if you have stomach for it, there is hair and clothing that might mark their persons."

"I must go, my king!" Inirion said on the verge of tears.

"Of course, Inirion," Thranduil kindly dismissed, beginning to rise so he might greater offer his sympathies, but the elf all but ran from the tent. The lieutenant swiftly followed the aide leaving the two sovereigns and the healer behind.

Thranduil sighed as he returned to his seat and he noted again the throbbing pain in his head. Inirion's anguish was heartbreaking and reminded him that he was the one who had ordered the scouts out. Here were three more deaths that were his responsibility.

"Would that this ruin did not touch another of my people," he said, burying his face into his hands. "I would take Inirion's pain if it were somehow allowed." He accepted the aid of the healer as he nudged the king, drawing his arm into the sleeve of his previously discarded tunic. It was smeared with black blood like that of the soldier but he dared not think to bother Inirion with that small detail now. He could tolerate the inconvenience of an unkempt appearance given the weight of all that had happened this day. He fell back into his remorse as his fingers brushed past a trace of red blood that merged with the black. "Too much death has befallen the woodland."

"Such is the price of rulership, Cousin. All responsibility falls on you," Celeborn replied, nodding to the healer as he looked to his lord for permission to exit.

Darkly Thranduil replied, "I never sought the path given me." He had regrets and this mission was making them ever more obvious.

Celeborn grunted as he sank down, joining Thranduil on the cot. "Granted, your role was thrust upon you by birth. Such things cannot always be helped. Still we must be what we were meant to be."

"You chose your life, my friend," Thranduil admonished, but the scolding came with only half a heart as he found his despair renewed. "Had it been mine to say, I would have chosen a humble means of employ. A smith perhaps, or a bowwright."

Celeborn laughed at that. "I do not think you would cater well to menial work."

"Who is to say a smith or wright is not noble in their taskwork?" Thranduil defended.

Celeborn sighed in concession, clenching and flexing his hand, and Thranduil noted the bandage that bound his palm. It seemed to him then that no one was to leave this ordeal unscathed. And then a smarting gladness filled him, for he realized he blamed his cousin for much. Oblivious to his thoughts, Celeborn acknowledged his query. "None I suppose. But you are of hardier lines. If I were to have ventured such thinking, I would have thought you would choose a warrior's life."

Thranduil could not help himself. A small bark of laughter answered that comment with a note of contempt. "A warrior? Nay, not me. You think of my son; he is the warrior. And commander -- a fine one at that too!" His pride got the better of him, and not for the first time he wondered what it might have been like had he allowed Legolas to command as he had wanted, letting his inherent abilities take control. "Those skills passed a generation; they were in my father, and now in my son, but not in me."

"Your father was a fine warrior, this is true. And your son has proven to be as well, though hopefully he will not make the mistakes Oropher did in the end. Pride got the better of him," Celeborn said blatantly, not seeming to notice that Thranduil winced.

"Who is to say it was his pride that ruled that day?" the Mirkwood king muttered. "I carry that trait myself."

Celeborn shook his head, pressing his wounded hand into his thigh, he rose and said, "It was not you who ordered your men into battle ill-equipped and ahead of Gil-Galad's charge." *

Thranduil paused, finding he held his breath as he contemplated speaking the truth, for that fatal last battle was partly his doing. Pride? Yes, that played a part, as did Passion. And with that he thought of his many mistakes and the greatest of them all. Thranduil had let the Ring rule his actions rather than allowing talent and trust to reign. How many times had he been misguided and set to the wrong path by It? Again and again he had been lulled into forgetfulness and forgiveness by It, pushing aside past misdeeds for the sake of present need.

Celeborn seemed to notice the quiet storm brewing in the elf. He amended his words, "Perhaps now is not the time to speak of past deeds. The ability to correct those things is lost to us. Better we correct what lay ahead than behind."

The sad note crept again into Thranduil's words as he acknowledged the wisdom of his kin's guidance. Celeborn was born to be a king, whereas Thranduil..."I am not gifted in politics or war. I should have said as much when I was young. Perhaps I could have convinced my father not to push me into the role I now bear." And had he done so, the Ring might never have been passed to him for the relationships that fostered It would never have come to pass. Despite Celeborn's words, past misdeeds would forever haunt Thranduil.

Celeborn seemed to ponder elf's words for a moment. And then he replied in an equally remorseful tone, "Would that I had recognized these things in you. As I draw memory back it is plain now that you were lost and sad when your father brought you to my court. I should have said something then to deter his wishes to make you into a replica of himself. But then I suppose I was flattered by the task he asked of me. As you say, I chose my path. I can imagine none other than this course. I should have seen it is not the same in all. Forgive me, Thranduil, for not speaking on your behalf."

Such an apology surprised Thranduil. Though he had felt he had reason for blame enough to share, he had not expected such acknowledgment to actually come. And in reasoning this, he suddenly realized the truth of the matter. What had come to pass with Thranduil was not Celeborn's fault. "It is not you I need to forgive, dear Celeborn. We are all masters of our fate, or so I am coming to learn. Had I the courage to stand up to my convictions, the world might be in a different place. It is strange to think it, but had I become something small and simple --"

"-- A wright or a smith," Celeborn interjected with a laugh.

"-- all of the Greenwood might have been saved from the ruin I have delivered unto it." He could not hold back these dark thoughts, but he also could not blame his cousin for them. Legolas and his fate were foremost in his mind and Inirion's tragedy only made it all the more obvious. Those came from his doing.

His head pounded and he felt sick for it. What might save him from this misery? Then again, was it not fair that he suffered? Why should he seek forgiveness for the selfishness he placed above all others?

He immediately thought then of the female orc and her plea for forgiveness and he felt his heart grow heavier. It was clear to Thranduil that she knew him and he couldn't help but surmise that she must have been of the Greenwood. While under the guidance of the Ring, he had thought only of making trades to the darkness, sacrificing numerous battalions in exchange for safe passage for Legolas. Realizing now that the Ring was one of those crafted by Sauron, he understood that he had been manipulated. The guilt was immense for so long as those lost were nameless, faceless, in his mind he could surrender them. Now he was reminded of what truly came to be when he put his desires above all else.

"Perhaps this is not the time for a discussion of regret. You need rest," Celeborn said, patting Thranduil's shoulder.

"I need nothing except knowledge of my son, Celeborn," answered Thranduil, drawing himself tall as he came to stand. He brushed his hands over the dried blood of his tunic, black and red combined. The stain was there and would not be washed away. He would wear the marks of what had happened.

Suddenly he did not want sympathy. Anxiety gnawed at him. He wanted to know that his only tie to this world yet lived. He had destroyed the relationship of the past, but that of his son might possibly be healed if only he could reach him.

"Do you not sense him?" Celeborn asked and his eyes were piercing.

Thranduil started, the impact of the question hitting him. As an elf father, of course he should sense his child. That bond was shared by all of his kind. But Celeborn would not realize that ability had been cut off for Thranduil. The Ring had ruined that connection long ago and except for brief glimpses into the psyche of his son, he had known nothing of Legolas.

Only... only now...

There. There, so soft as to be almost unrecognizable, even light and lessening, there he realized something different. There was the scent of pine and green grass, the brush of wind lapping through leaves on the top branches of the trees. There was the chill feel of brook stones in a sandy bed, water pure and clear. There... playing in his own heart like a song, there was Legolas.

He could sense the presence of Legolas! It was not great, but it was more than it had been.

And then he recognized that something had been lifted from him, a pressing weight, a gauzy veil, and his senses were free. It was not just Legolas that he felt, but the world around him.

Jubilant tears filled his eyes as he searched the parameters of his soul. A tiny thread of Legolas's presence appeared to him. He could not see him, of course, or know anything of what he did, but he could recognize his son's part within him, a part of his soul enmeshed with the other. "Yes, yes, I...I feel him." came his stunned reply.

And then in like turn he realized that something else was not there. The Ring!

He spun around on his heel, looking about his surroundings as if he might see It there with him, calling to him just as the presence of his son's soul called to him, but he already knew It was not. It is gone, he knew for had It been there he would not feel free as he did now.

His mind raced back to the moment when he had last sensed It. Recalling the battle, his struggles, a flash of gold, he recognized when It had been shorn from him.

And to that he felt great relief. A heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He could feel in a way he could not remember feeling before and he realized it had been millennia that he had been divorced from himself as he had been born. It was gone and he felt as an elf!

He knew he should panic. For so long he had relied upon his Passion to help him through times of indecision. The Ring had made him brilliant -- courageous and firm. And did he not need those qualities now?

Yet even confined to the tent he recognized that the world stretched out before him. His skin tingled and his ears rang with Song and he felt like he had suddenly freed himself from one too many layers of clothes.

"I must leave," he said abruptly, startling Celeborn.

"Leave? But you have only just been mended. The cot is here, waiting for you to take it for rest," the elf indicated.

"I need none," Thranduil insisted. He had to go see what lay beyond the curtain of this tent. He had to see the world and it was suddenly clear to him what he must do.

But the Lord of the Golden Wood countered him. The injured hand reached out to him, staying him. "There are others who need to recover, Thranduil. What of your soldiers? They are still burying the dead, and some mourn," Celeborn pointed out, reminding him again of Inirion.

"I realize this. I will not command them to follow me," Thranduil said, looking down at the blood that marked the bandaged hand. For the first time in his recollection, he did not care what the elder thought nor did he require others to follow him in his endeavor. He pushed open the flap to the tent and stepped out.

"You are fatigued, Thranduil. A night's rest will be of aid to you and then we can set off again," the Lothlorien lord dismissed as he followed in pursuit two steps behind.

But Thranduil felt anything but fatigued. He felt alive. For the first time, alive.

The world seemed a brighter palette to him then, the hues of the sun on the autumn grasses playing vividly in oranges, browns and golds while the scent of winter drifted in the air. He looked to the blue mountains and smelled the bite of snow that played upon their peaks and knew that too soon the metallic air would come to the plains. But for now the sun warmed them and stayed the chill. He squinted at the lowering sun and listened for the Song of Anor as he watched those fiery fingers of light caress the long horizon. Song was all about him and the world was vivid. How had he missed knowing that?

Thranduil scoffed at his cousin's plea. He longed to be free and his mind was made up. "Nay, I will not rest, Celeborn. I feel the presence of my son yet, but I cannot say it will remain so if I tarry. I must venture. You will not keep me here."

"But your people..." countered Celeborn.

"You decide for them," came the succinct answer, and it surprised Thranduil the great force of his words, for Celeborn flinched back as he said them. Amused at the start he created in his cousin, he added with a smile and a pat to the arm, "I surrender them to you, for I am wearied by compromising others to my desires. Too long now I have tried to be all things to all people. No more. I want only to see my son. I have much to make up to him, and I would start by saving his life if I can." And with that Thranduil knew his resolve. He would surrender no more and no matter who was directing it, he would not be manipulated or made to doubt himself if he should disagree with the assessment of others. "I am grateful that you intervened on my behalf here. I owe you my life. But I cannot linger. Legolas needs aid and he needs it now."

He turned and grinned suddenly, feeling more than seeing the hardy dwarf that came forth. He could smell iron there, hear the toiling sound of the forge, sense the loamy feel of earth in this small person's presence. He was greatly cheered by Gimli's appearance but also realized he needed to remedy his earlier mistakes. Fortunately he did not think his errors were irreparable and he recognized that fate seemed to put them in each other's path.

Without preamble, he bowed to his knees as the dwarf came before him. "Master Dwarf, ever will I be grateful to you. You saved my life in battle, but more you have been a true friend to my son. I must thank you. But more, I must ask your forgiveness. I have not been kind to you and I would remedy my ways if I could from this moment forth. I am to leave now and ask if you would join me. I would welcome your company if you would have me. And though I know I have much to prove, if you say yes, you will find none more loyal and faithful than me in my friendship." And then he watched to see what effect his words would have, greatly amused and relieved to be done of the constraints put on him.

It was clear Gimli was stunned by the words and knew not what to say as he looked from one elf lord to the other. Thranduil noted the dwarf's color and well-being, the Song ringing loud in him, amplified somehow. Surprisingly, he above all others seemed to be hale and whole. He saw no marks on him from the battle, no stains on his garb. He looked well. Better than well, in fact. He had not seemed that way before, but Thranduil was not sure if the change was a result of his own awakening. It mattered not; in fact it made it all the easier, for he did not wish to be delayed by illness, and he was certain he would need Gimli with him if he would grant it. Gimli was devout in his concerns for Legolas.

"He is right. There is no more time to waste," said another and Thranduil turn about to see Galadriel there. Her gaze was bright and her hair shone. Her beauty startled him for he had not seen her among them until this moment. He could sense her great age and wisdom which were matched by her beauty. But then he remembered his resentment of her. Though he would not blame Celeborn, he could not help but hold scorn for her. His cousin's part was not deliberate; hers were quite intended. Still she was defending Thranduil's decision and he had to feel gratitude for that as he saw the brightness of her fae shine brightly outward. Despite all, her light was bright. "The presence of the soldiers will not be of aid," she said, speaking pointedly to her husband. "It is Thranduil and Gimli who must intercede now."

And to this the dwarf's brow pinched together and one hand reached to his chin. But then he turned to Thranduil as if assessing him. The elf was reminded then that the dwarf had refused him before and he wondered if he would do the same now. But almost immediately he said, "I will journey with you, Lord Elf."

Celeborn seemed the one to hesitate then, as if he had a say in the matter. He held up his hand, bowing his head in contemplation. "Very well," he said when he looked up again. "Our people will follow as soon as we can."

He looked to Galadriel, reaching out to take her hand, but she simply smiled at him. "I go with them," she said, indicating Thranduil and Gimli. Her smile was serene, but that did not belie the surprise this announcement created. "I will be needed as well," she replied to the unspoken question no one dared ask.

Thranduil frowned. While he understood his own goal to find his son, and that of Gimli's as well, he did not recognize Galadriel's motivation. Certainly Legolas's fate was not important to her or her realm, not directly. But he could sense nothing from her. Then again, he never could. Celeborn would stay behind and would follow soon after; there was no reason for her to come, and he felt suspicious of her decision to go with them.

He would not think on it. He could not be responsible for her, nor could he stop her if she decided to follow. Whatever her reasons, he assumed she would show them in good time. But once more he pledged he would not be guided or goaded by her, and now free he intended to hold to that. His days of admiration for her were gone and she would not compel him to act against his own wishes. He was choosing a simpler life. Nay, not simpler, more direct, one of his own course, one where his senses were his own.

He turned away and the dwarf followed. But ere he walked out of sight he glanced back and saw Celeborn's irritation for the countering his wife had made. Thranduil smiled. It was clear the elf lord needed a moment alone with his queen and Thranduil did not doubt they would disagree. He found some satisfaction in that. But neither did he doubt that Galadriel would sway him with her argument. The elf queen had wisdom and foresight on her side.

He walked on and he knew the dwarf followed racing to catch up with his long strides.

"I would speak with you," Gimli called to him.

The elf stopped and looked down on the sturdy figure. Everything about him was bristly, strong and made of muscle. The cape that hung from his square shoulders were overlong and made him look like a draped monument. "What is it?" he asked, but the dwarf shook his head. He crooked his head, indicating the far side of the camp. Thranduil followed behind and when they got to a place where none might hear, Gimli turned around, facing the elf as if he meant to confront him.

Choosing not to banter small words, the dwarf held out his hand. Within was the Ring. Yet again Thranduil found himself starting in surprise. "This belongs to you," Gimli said.

Thranduil's eyes widened and he flinched back. Something in him cried out in both jealousy and desire. Despite his previous relief at being freed from the burden of It, the Ring, now presented to him, reminded him of how much he had loved It. It had been a part of his life; he had relied upon It for many long years. He felt his nostrils flare, his fingers spread, his breath catch. There was want still in him. The Ring called to him.

No.

He took a step back and pulled his want away. His jaw tightened and he pivoted where he stood. They were upon the battlefield, blood black and gray meshing into the grasses now gone dead. Somewhere near was the female orc.

He had betrayed her. She may well have been one of his own, one of the many he had sacrificed for the sake of keeping those dear to him safe. And for what gain? His wife was dead. His father, dead. And Legolas...? Legolas was not dead, but he did not love him.

You want me.

But still he reached his heart out testing again the sense of his son. So pale was the feeling... it was fading.

He snapped his hands out from his sides, as if commanding silence though he knew the only sound he heard was the desire crying out from his heart. "Take It away," he said.

"It is yours," Gimli said, thrusting the Ring toward him.

"Nay, not mine. It was never mine," the elf answered, not looking. He was better without It. He knew this.

Gimli seemed to be surprised by the elf's response and he turned his gaze to stare at the Ring. The sun seemed to catch the light of It, reflecting golden light shining upon the dwarf's face and he appeared both pleased and terrified by Thranduil's reply. Yet he shook his head, asking, "What am I supposed to do with It?"

"Keep It. Give It away. Let Galadriel have this one too," he said, unable to resist this small barb directed at her. But he pushed that aside for the nobler deed. "It matters no more to me. I will not have It." He was firm in his resolve and his eyes were hard. His mind was made. He would not be tempted by the Ring again.

He pushed past Gimli, walking back to the camp and to the place where the horses were corralled. He would get Arod and then be away. Yet Gimli must come. Galadriel had said as much and the dwarf would not forsake her. The temptation of the Ring would follow then. He glanced over his shoulder to watch what next the dwarf would do.

Absently Gimli had followed the elf's exit. And then he stood, staring at his surroundings before turning his attention to the Ring. The dwarf closed his hand into a fist and then slowly, he nodded, as if making a decision. It almost seemed as if a breeze caught his beard then, for everything about this dwarf seemed to shimmer and glow. Further, he seemed to command something great.

It was done then, Thranduil realized. The Ring now belonged to the dwarf and he felt something in him break. But it was a good thing. The manipulation was gone too. His head no longer throbbed. Thranduil no longer felt the temptation of the Ring. He was free.

Let him come then, and let him bring the Ring, he thought. Thranduil was ready to start anew. He did not need the coaxing of It to set him on the correct course for never had it done so before. For this time he would be sacrificing no one, nothing. He was giving up everything so all he had left to give was himself. He sent that song out to the world, out to his son. I will find you, Legolas, he thought, and I will not betray you again.

TBC

* The pair speak here of Oropher's fall at the Battle of Dagorlad in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Oropher unwisely led his army into battle without adequate armor and weaponry, charging them ahead of the armies of Gil-Galad. Two-thirds of Greenwood's army died in that battle, Oropher among them, and that foolishness was one of the reasons many elves outside of that wood considered the Greenwood elves to be fey and wild.


	52. Powers Renewed

**Dark Forest  
By Anarithilien**

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Fifty-One: Powers Renewed_

"I have seen what is to come, Celeborn," Galadriel argued.

"Of course you have," the lord said, the tone of his voice laden heavily with disbelief.

"I do not do this to harm you," she said, and Celeborn could not help but soften his heart as he met her eyes. Thranduil did not know he realized, but the memory of what she had done all those years ago, maneuvering his cousin as she had, was still with him. Yet he could not truly blame her present actions.

"Perhaps not, but regardless I resent that the decision is made without conferring with me," Celeborn replied.

She did not bother dropping her eyes, for that would have been coy and she had no need to act so with him. He knew her too well. "You would not have agreed," she said.

And she was right. Of course he would not have agreed. "Why should I?" he asked, feeling again his aggravation mounting in light of his memory's renewal.

"Despite the years, you have not forgiven me my previous mistakes," she said.

"Not true," he argued. "I simply do not understand why it is important that you become involved in Thranduil's endeavor. It does not concern us."

"It is important because what occurred with Annatar is not yet complete. The Quest may be done, but evil still lives and it affects those of our kin. It _does_ concern us."

"But are you not weary? Do you not tire of fighting this darkness? I know I do," he countered.

Always complacent and calm, none would have noted the tightening of her jaw had they not the many years of history that he did. As much as he felt ire in this moment, so did she. He knew her answer; she was tired, infinitely so. Over the years he had seen the burden taking affect on her. The price of being a bearer of Nenya was great. The crushing sea-longing It created had been drawing her away from him and he knew she would remain on Arda for little time more. "I would try to amend my errors if I might," she said and he recognized that she was trying to redeem herself of what she had done to Thranduil before she would leave.

"Do you think he will forgive you? I dare think it not. You would do better to distance yourself from him," Celeborn advised.

"I do not do this for him. Thranduil will forgive as he so chooses. But Legolas has been needlessly harmed by actions set into motion long before he was born. He has been sorely used, and I blame myself for his fate as much as I blame myself for the life of that orc woman and her misbegotten child," Galadriel replied, and this surprised him. He had thought she acted for his cousin's sake, not necessarily out of a greater state of guilt.

"You did not cause the events that led to their fates," Celeborn argued, thinking her cause too vast. She sounded like Thranduil now, trying to redeem a past that was too large and cumbersome to be placed squarely on the shoulders of one.

She negated him. "I created a sequence of happenings far earlier than their parts in history. Legolas and that orc female are just the innocents who have suffered in the wake of what I have done," she answered, and he could see the sorrow shimmering in her eyes.

"Galadriel-" he began, but she stepped up to him first, cupping his face between her fingertips.

"Celeborn, let me do this. My fate is not important in this, but Legolas's is, as is Thranduil's. I can help, and perhaps I can even repair some of the damage I have created. It is such a small thing for me, but it can do so much."

Her eyes met his and held him. The color he saw there was a blue as deep as the sea and he knew that her feelings met that depth. He could not deny her. Never could he deny her.

He nodded his assent. He turned then knowing she would follow Thranduil and Gimli from there. She needed nothing more from him. But he needed much from her. Still. Yet.

He remembered the days of Annatar. At the Man's appearance, Celeborn had immediately sensed the ruse of His façade. What he had not realized was Galadriel's attraction to the darkness that resided there. That was before Nenya had entered their lives and Galadriel's gift of premonition had not been so keen. She had a sense of the danger Annatar posed and she fought it, but her attraction to the power He wielded had been overwhelming and Celeborn could not deny his jealousy. That was why he had berated Thranduil as he had, and why the young elf had become such easy prey to Galadriel's manipulations. It was not the kiss she had bestowed on his young cousin that angered him - a witness to it, he knew well it had been a meaningless token - but her pursuit of the Man had hurt him greatly. In the end, she had chosen Celeborn, but not before losing Thranduil to the seduction of Annatar's deceptions. By the time Celeborn and Galadriel had united and begun their fight against the darkness together, Thranduil had been so immersed in the ways of Annatar that he was jaded to the counsel they tried to offer him.

They had set the young elf on the wrong path. He knew he must share in that responsibility, and that is why he would acquiesce to Galadriel's wishes now. Fortunately, in recent years his cousin had come to try to remedy their strained relations. But Galadriel had not been so willingly forgiven, and he was not sure Thranduil would ever come to do so. But perhaps if she could help him recover Legolas he would. Celeborn would let her try.

xxxxxx

Gimli's attention was drawn to Thranduil as he followed in the elf king's path. He watched as the golden-haired elf gathered tack and then ducked the rope pen that kept the horses. Except for his broader shoulders, Thranduil looked exactly like Legolas from the angle at which the dwarf watched.

Arod's head came up from the grass he had been grazing as the jangle of the bit sounded in the air. Gimli would have thought the horse would want to feed, but Arod trotted to the king without the urging of the clicking sound elves used to call their beasts forth. It seemed Arod was as eager as they were to be gone.

Thranduil smoothed the blanket over the horse's back and then easily drew the saddle over. "You will ride with me then, Master Dwarf?" the elf asked.

"I will," Gimli said, remembering how enraged he had been with the elf the last time they had ridden together. Somehow it all seemed different now though their battle of words had only been a few hours before. His feelings were not altered, for he still perceived Thranduil to be arrogant and maligned in his previous actions. But he also noted a change, a sort of lightness in the king that had not been there before. It no longer seemed that his reasons for acting were a desperate reach driven by guilt, but in fact were motivated by concern and true desire to be with his son. Gimli knew the king had proclaimed as much before, but now it seemed he genuinely felt it. The dwarf noted that the elf kept looking out to the horizon as he tightened the girdling cinch of the saddle.

And then Gimli too gazed out over the horizon.

There was something looming out there. He could not see it, but he could feel it. It resonated deep within him, a thrum and beat upon the ground. For Gimli it was as if oliphants tromped the fields.

"Do you feel that?" he asked Thranduil.

The elf's brows drew up. "I feel Legolas," he answered, barely registering a glance. "In small part."

It was not what Gimli meant, but he was curious. "Tell me of him."

Thranduil gazed again across the plain. The bleached fields of grass trembled with the breeze and the sun progressed low in the sky. All was painted orange and red as the sun drew to the plain's nigh and it seemed the colors told the story as much as the elf's expression and words.

"He is in pain," Thranduil answered through a tightening jaw, turning back to his task, and Gimli noted then that the elf's hands shook as he fit the bit into Arod's mouth and pulled the cross straps over the horse's ears. He glanced at the dwarf as Arod shook his head and twisted his mouth to adjust the bit in his mouth. The horse snorted as he settled and Thranduil stroked the animal's shoulder, gathering up the reins. "My son is confused and feeling lost."

"Yet he lives," Gimli added trying to find encouragement.

"He lives," Thranduil confirmed, "though he is fading. I know not if it is from his wounds or his heart that he does so, but he is failing and will die if we do not make haste to get to him."

"How do you know this?" Gimli asked, flinching as Thranduil stepped forward with Arod, thrusting the reins into his hands. He almost laughed thinking the elf meant him to lead, only understanding a moment later he just meant for Gimli to steady the horse.

"It is the bond of a parent to his child that I feel," Thranduil said as sidled up to the horse, running his hands over Arod's legs and lifting each foot to inspect and pick at the hoofs.

"Can you do nothing for him from here?" Gimli asked, absently running fingers over Arod's velvet nose as he watched the elf in his task.

"He does not reciprocate the bond," Thranduil said as his eyes once more turned out to the horizon, and Gimli could read in the muscled twitch of the elf's jaw the ache that was felt. He read the unspoken words conveyed in that action. _For I am the cause._ The elf continued. "I have tried but he does not hear me."

Gimli followed his gaze, noticing once again the thrumming sensation of the ground beneath him. He watched the elf to see if there was any perception on his part for what Gimli felt. But Thranduil merely turned his eyes down, returning once more to the task that occupied him, clearly not cognizant of it.

He looked up suddenly in the next minute though, glancing past the dwarf and back to the camp. "Galadriel comes," he said and Gimli peered over his shoulder to see the lady coming their way. An elf jogged past her, nodding to her before dodging the rope fence to enter the horse pen. He quickly retrieved her horse, calling to another to gather tack, as Galadriel came to speak with Thranduil and Gimli.

Unflustered as always, she smiled at the dwarf as she said to Thranduil, "If we journey through the night, we should reach Fangorn by the morn."

The king nodded without glancing up. "That was my intent," he said and Gimli noted the stiffness of his posture and sudden aloofness. _This is where Legolas gets it,_ he thought, remembering how his friend could create a wall when he was angered or in pain.

He almost felt sorry for the elf queen for the coldness of the reply, but she serenely turned to the dwarf, seemingly ignoring Thranduil's disdain. She said, "The Onodrim come."

_The Onodrim_, Gimli thought. _That is the Elvish word for Ents. Ents?_ "How near are they?" he asked, thinking again of the earth's pulse and realizing it was them that he felt.

"We should come upon them by middle night."

Stunned, Gimli gasped. How could the beat of the earth seem so near to him when clearly the Ents were many miles away? He shook his query off, not convinced yet that the movements of the tree lords was what he felt.

"Is Treebeard with them?" he asked, for he had come to think the Ent Lord the only one capable of quelling Graywood's madness.

"The messages I had sent asked specifically that he come," Galadriel replied.

_The Ents are coming_, he thought.

Galadriel stepped away and Gimli was left to consider the role Treebeard would play in Legolas's rescue. He was glad to hear the tree lord would be involved for he felt Greywood was dangerous and he did not look forward to facing the Ent without aid.

_The Ents are coming._

He knelt to the ground so he might touch it with his hand to feel again the tremors of the earth. As he did so, he heard the Ring lightly drop to the ground, falling out of his pocket and bouncing off his boot. Knowing the ways of these Rings, he recognized that this was not so much a means of escape as it was the Ring trying to get his attention. He supposed then that it had a name and he wondered at it as he reached to pick It up. _ Vaenduzk,_ he heard in his mind. He pondered this as he repeated the Khuzdûl word. _Passion_, he translated as his fingers brushed over Its surface. In that same moment his hand touched the ground.

He fell backward in surprise for it did not seem that he just touched the ground in that instant but that he also had smelled, tasted, _knew_ the ground on which he stood. It startled him, for the sensation was sudden, as if the Ring had heightened what he was. As a dwarf, of course he could discern the earth, but here he found he sensed it with greater intensity than he had ever felt before.

He clutched the Ring in his hand and gazed out once again over the plain. The landscape was different now that he held It. He could nearly see the rock that made up the earth, ruddy and vitreous dolomite, smooth blue sheets of shale with touches here and there of ocher-bright limonite. Off in the west where the sun drew toward the mountain crests, he could see the effervescent sparkle of feldspar and the flattened moss hues of peridot. He turned about him then, astonished and imagining that he could even taste, smell, the iron, calcium and salty residue of the stone that wafted on the air. For the first time he thought he could appreciate what Legolas called the Song of Nature, for he felt he understood those same qualities in the sensations he drew upon in this. He was empowered by it.

And this is what he felt just in _holding_ the Ring? Imagine what it might be to _wear_ It!

But he did not need to wear It. He knew in that instant that should he wear It, his powers would grow greater, that not only would he sense the earth, but he would be able to maneuver it, to use it.

Quickly he stuffed the Ring back into his pocket, frightened by It. And he also understood then the meaning of Its name, for this was Passion - want, desire that came from the soul. His soul was of stone and the Ring drew it out. More, he realized It could easily become an addiction. It enticed him with the romance of what It could bring him, all the riches he could gain and control.

"_Vaenduzk an berran lieb,"_ he murmured. He knew history and what had come to those who succumbed to the greed that privilege created. "But not always. I know what You desire; I will not follow."

Still, reluctantly, he was a Ringbearer, and he needed to find a way to manage It. He could not freely toss It aside, not knowing in just this brief exposition, what he knew now. And too, he felt somehow It could help. He did not think fate had placed the Ring with him if not for the sake of Legolas. He could not explain this, for Thranduil too set out on a path to rescue his son, yet the Ring had not stayed with him. _He does not have the powers I do over It_, Gimli decided.

Passion was wanting though, and in that there was danger. He shuddered as he felt It call out to him. He would not use It to meet Its desires. He would control It. He only hoped he was not making a terrible mistake.

xxxxxxx

Though it was not something an Ent was supposed to admit, Treebeard was enjoying his recent sojourn beyond the borders of his forest. Normally an Ent, or any good tree that had legs to carry it, would be wary of doing such a thing.

In the world of Men, walking trees were a thing of myth and mystery. Men only liked to hear about them while cloistered in their cities and enclaves of gathering, not in the realities of the greater world. Indeed humanity did not harbor strangeness well. Thus despite their greater size and superior strength, the Onodrim frightened those of Men unaccustomed to them. And frightened Men could be dangerous.

Treebeard understood Man's fear, just as he understood that he could not blame Men for their wariness. They did not know Ents and that was the fault of his kind. Too long had the tree lords been resistant to leave their secured lands, finding it easier to grow complacent and not bothering with the world beyond. Had they made themselves familiar outside their borders, none of men would fear them and they could saunter about at will. But for reasons even Treebeard could not recall, they had stopped moving about, setting roots in the soils at the great mountain's feet.

Still, Treebeard was pleased to be roaming, for since the recent days when war times had made creatures of all types availed to the world, Men had become aware that Ents indeed existed, and the tree lord had less to worry about in that regard. Still, he did not walk about alone. Sweettree and Quickbeam were companions to him now.

But that was only one part of the wandering of his mind, and his eyes looked off to see the approaching riders. He could see they came to meet him just as he came to meet them. No doubt they would confer about the news that had set this mission into action. It troubled him. The Elf and Dwarf that had come to visit his forest and had suffered harm, done so at the hands of Mithtaur. Greywood had long been a worrisome Ent for Treebeard. Ever since Sauron had launched a war upon the wood, the mind of the Greywood had been disordered. Never though had Treebeard thought his old comrade capable of doing injury or real harm. That was a new turn and one Treebeard would need to address firmly. He had hoped that he would never have to dole out retribution to his own kind, but hurting invited guests of the wood was not acceptable. He had to wonder if Mithtaur even understood what he had done.

It was a heartbreaking thing to consider the differences that had occurred in the Ent. What Mithtaur had once been and what he was now were two completely different things. The Ent had once been thoughtful, eager and kind; now he was just confused.

It did not matter. Whatever his state, Mithtaur had harmed friends and that deed could not go unpunished. The Ent would have to be stilled. That was never easy. Ents were mobile and meant to be so. To force them to stillness was a cruel punishment. Of course sometimes Ents stilled of there own volition - living eternally was a long task and it was possible for an Ent to grow more treeish as a result of their fatigue. But to force it... Fangorn was not happy with what was to come.

He watched as the riders neared and he grew excited when he realized two of them were elves. Fangorn had a long memory and recalled those times when Ents and Elves lived closely. That was why Mithtaur's act was so grievous. Much of what Ents were could be attributed to the Elves.

He saw Galadriel-lady elf of Lothlorien. And then upon another horse was the diminutive figure of a dwarf. Here was Gimli-Elf-Friend-Thirdborn and he felt the eagerness of this young one even from this distance. He remembered when he had first met the Three Hunters. The elf of Greenwood the Great had been the dwarf's companion. He had amused himself then with the dwarf's smallness and fierce loyalty. Now he saw that those indeed were helpful traits.

He noticed a change however. The russet-haired dwarf seemed burdened somehow. Treebeard was not so keen in his understanding of two-legged creatures to read their emotions well. Still, he could tell there was something happening with the elf-friend that was greater than mere anxiety.

But then Treebeard flinched. The message that had been relayed to him was that the young Greenwood elf had been stolen away by Fangorn's Greywood. But was that not him there, sitting before Gimli? He certainly looked to be. Yet upon greater scrutiny Treebeard saw he was not. This elf was older and not so light of mood as the other. That did not change the uncanny resemblance this elf maintained. Like the dwarf's tenacity, he wondered if that might be used to help the situation.

And that was when a plan began to form in his mind. Despite Mithtaur's seeming madness, Greywood was no fool and he guarded his sector carefully. Entering would not be easy, at least not for a fellow Ent. Treebeard and his companions might have difficulty entering Greywood's region unnoticed, but this elf and dwarf would not. It might be that Ents were known for their plodding slowness, but Treebeard had a quick mind and could indeed move with haste when need required it. And now his mind was moving fast. He planted himself where he stood and waited for the riders to reach him. He would think on it more, and when they met he would bear the fruit of his ideas to them.

xxxxxxx

The brilliant sunset dissolved into the rich thickness of cobalt as the night stretched before them. They traveled through the evening with barely a word said between them, Thranduil with Gimli at his back, and Galadriel riding singly on her bay. The horses' coats were slick with sweat but the animals' breathing was steady and controlled and so they rode on. Treebeard was there as well and marched near enough to keep their pace, but distant enough so as not to frighten the horses. Thranduil could not help but be slightly disappointed at that, for though he had seen much in his lifetime, the Onodrim were creatures new to him, and his curiosity made him feel invigorated.

Yet their mounts grew skiddish, ears twitching wildly and chins drawing into their furrows as if they might buck whenever the Ent marched near. All resigned themselves to what conversation could be made at a distance.

Not that there was really opportunity to talk. Though he knew they were taking a risk in doing it, they galloped or loped the horses most of the distance. In the dark it would have been easy to misstep and lame his mount with a turn on a rut, but if Treebeard's plan was to work, they had to arrive before the evening drew too far gone else they would have to create another plan or wait another full day. And they were so near. Surrendering to the danger and keeping a watchful eye in the dark, Thranduil and Galadriel pushed their horses on into the night.

With the pace they kept, Thranduil was glad he did not have to share words with Galadriel. He did not think his patience could hold with her, and he had no desire to have to explain to the dwarf the reasons for his short temper. Still, he glanced at her from time to time, wondering what her reasons were for taking his cause and insisting her place at his side. Could it be she felt sympathy for him? He tried not to dwell upon it overlong for despite all his pent animosities, he begrudgingly had to admit she still stirred admiration from him. And her beauty could not be disputed. Yards ahead, he watched her single braid swing and trail behind her, swaying with the rock of her motion. Her riding clothes were of simply cut, pinching in at her waist but not constricting her movements as she matched the rise and fall of her horse's gait. Still, he reminded himself that beauty was deceiving and Galadriel was not one to act on purity of deed. She had her motives.

Fortunately he did not have long in her company to ponder this. It was shortly after midnight when Galadriel and the Ent parted their company and he and Gimli rode on alone. It was there Thranduil regained his focus, casting his eyes across the plains. He could see the forest growing in scale and scope, becoming greater than just a dark line on the horizon ahead and emerging from the plain to fringe at the mountain bases. Within the hour their ride brought them to near enough position that it had become Gimli's responsibility to find his former camp and report their next turn and when they might stop. Following the willowy trail of the Limlight, they had reached their goal and stood at the walls of the forest.

Thranduil looked for signs of his son as they re-established the former camp. He saw nothing and so looked toward the forest, seeking feeling that might lead him to the young elf. It was an inhospitable wood but that did not frighten him. His own forest was said to be menacing yet he knew how to walk its paths. Still, he did not know this wood. He was servant to Gimli and Treebeard now, for though he would have liked to believe he was capable, he could not venture it alone. Listening, he could hear the heaving moans of the trees within though he could not understand their song. Each murmured something different and their commingled voices became a burr of noise. But it was the anxiety he felt in his own heart as they neared the forest that tested his resolve.

In that last hour's ride, when they had slowed their gait, Gimli had told him why Legolas had fled their outer camp and Thranduil knew the fault was his. Though he had not been present when the event had occurred, the reason Legolas had run was because a memory of the pain Thranduil had created.

Worse, in the hours of riding, Thranduil had come to feel less and less of his son. He looked into his heart and sought the spiritual attachment and found it lacking. His sense of Legolas was waning.

It was the question that drew his attention outward. Gimli was gathering scraps of wood to make a fire, brushing his hands off as he tossed the branches and sticks to the ground near the former fire pit. He had found the bare remains from the one he and Legolas had lit weeks before and he set about making it anew. But the query came when the dwarf noticed him staring into the dark forest. As if he could discern the thoughts in Thranduil's mind, he bowed his chin into his beard and asked, "He is still alive?"

That the dwarf would conceive to ask him that now startled the elf. Thranduil's fears were growing greater and he was having difficulty remaining still, keeping them. His fingers twitched and he was eager to move. Perhaps that was why the dwarf had asked. Yet at the root of his chest, he found a small tendril of hope and familiarity. He could feel spring green and the sound of birdsong. This was his son. He nodded, the economics of words hiding the depth of his feeling. Legolas was still alive.

"What does it feel like?" the dwarf asked, not reading the mask he wore. "How do you know?"

Thranduil screwed up his brow. He had never thought to explain a bond before, but having gone so long without noticing the one he shared with Legolas it seemed almost new to him, and he freely studied it. "It is weak," he began. This was stating the obvious, but in his mind it required saying for it was the thing that frightened him most. "Even in the best circumstances it is not greatly felt. But he is fading I think, and that makes it less than what it was."

Gimli began stacking and arranging the kindling in the fire pit, but he glanced at Thranduil over his work, his expression one of curiosity, and the elf understood that he was being vague in his reply. He continued. "Some say it is like Song, that there is a vibration that resonates in one's soul. That is what it feels like to me. I cannot put words to the sensation, I can only send out my thoughts and hope they are sought just as I try to reach his."

"You know what he is thinking then?" Gimli asked.

"No," Thranduil shook his head. "I can only glean a bit of what he might feel. There are no words."

The dwarf shook his head as he returned to his work. He struck a spark to his flint and in an instant the dry kindling was marked by flame. He quickly fed it, creating fire. "I fear I may never understand such a means of communicating without sight or sound as aid."

But Thranduil was encouraged. Speaking on it was drawing him in on the sensation and he found himself focused on finding an explanation. Thinking creatively, he said, "I do not know how a dwarf understands his craft either, but I imagine it is much the same as the sense of bond an elf shares with another of his kind. Among my people, we call what you do Song. I do not know what word you use. But let me ask you: when you are tunneling the earth, how do you know where it is safe to venture and where it is not?"

At first Gimli looked querulously at him, but after a moment he nodded in comprehension. He replied with a small shrug but also a smile, "I feel it as if I can sense where the ground is going to give, where the veins lie in the stone."

"Does the stone speak words to you to explain this? Does your sight of these things come alive to you?" Thranduil asked.

And the dwarf smiled, obviously recognizing the point of his question. It was clear he did not. "I simply feel it."

Thranduil nodded but then returned his gaze to the forest. He continued on without being asked. "Distance does not matter much. I would sense Legolas even if he were in Aman. His fea resonates with Song that, at its best, reaches into my soul. But it is weak and hard to discern. He has turned from me and does not grace me with much of himself."

"So he has control over it?" Gimli asked.

"Only in how he directs it," Thranduil replied.

Neither said anything then, for it had already been said that the Song was weak, and they both understood that the complete breaking of Song meant Legolas was near death. Thranduil thought on his wife and how greatly he had felt the severing of her bond when she had relinquished her fea to pass. He added somewhat absently, "When one bonds in marriage, the faer is even stronger than that of a parental bond. It is because the souls are merged in heart and act. I could sense Laeraniel when we were bonded almost to the beat of her very heart."

The dwarf looked away, as if recognizing Thranduil's thoughts were drawn back in memory. But his face was grim, lit by the fire. "It is not so with Legolas?" Gimli asked.

Recalling the pains of his wife's death, Thranduil affirmed it with a simple nod.

"Can you tell him to hold on? That we are near?" Though not outwardly visible, there was something of tearfulness in the dwarf's voice that made Thranduil look at him again.

"I can only send my thoughts his way. I hope he will seek my strength," Thranduil replied wearily though his affections for the dwarf increased greatly in that moment.

The dwarf continued feeding the fire then, and the pair remained silent for a time. When he thought it right, Thranduil then asked, referring to what had transpired that night, "This is the hour when Legolas left, is it not?"

He had not said anything of it but Gimli somehow perceived the ache in his heart, for he said, "He set about to forgive you, Thranduil. You should know that. He just did not know how to begin. It was my doing that pushed him to flee into the woods that night. Blame me. He was not always thus; his distress then was not typical of him. The Hobbits always thought him to be merry. They did not know the hurt in his heart. He did not outwardly show it."

"Yet he could be driven there. Had I followed a better course through the length of his life there would have been no need for him to relay the tale to you as he did." The elf bowed his head and sighed, contemplating his mistakes, but a movement from the dwarf stirred him. He turned his eyes there and saw then the fatigue the dwarf wore. He had forgotten about the mortal need for rest and it had clearly been a long day for all. Even he found himself weary, though he knew there would find no sleep tonight.

"You should get rest while you can," he said, resigning himself to his mission. "I should follow his steps if we are to make this work."

Gimli nodded, not fighting him on the need for sleep as he sat on the ground before the fire pulling Haldir's cloak tighter about his body. But then he added, "Be careful. Neither of us knows what we will find within. I only know that this wood is dangerous and for the both of us I do not relish the steps taken for admittance. I feel unrobed here and I do not think I will breathe well until we have met up again with Treebeard."

"Regardless, do what you can for rest. As we cannot know what is within we also cannot know when the next opportunity to do such will avail itself."

"The same to you," Gimi uttered, meeting his eyes. "You may not sleep like a dwarf, but you must need rest too. Find it if you can in that forest."

"I will see you at the appointed place," Thranduil bid, and without further fanfare, he turned and darted into the wood, just as Legolas had those short weeks ago. Like the dwarf, he did not know what to expect, but he did not worry for sleep. He could go on without it and despite the hours that lay between their next meeting he thought it more likely he would find himself fretting at the low sense that he felt of Legolas than what he would of sleep. Galadriel had said they could spare no more time. His heart concurred that statement.

**TBC**

Khuzdûl translation:

_Vaenduzk an berran lieb. - Passion will guide you._

**A/N:** As anyone who has done research on Tolkien's languages would tell you, Khazad is a secretive language, not often spoken in mixed company. Few words of it have ever been published in Tolkien's world. I did as best I could to scrape the words I have here together using Ardalambion as a resource. The ones I could not find there came from role-playing sites where Tolkien dwarves are characters; and as there is often as much passion for accuracy on those sites as what I strive for here, I trust them to be acceptable alternatives - at least more so than if I just randomly made up words.


	53. Pure of Heart

**Dark Forest  
By Anarithilien**

**Part Four: When Worlds Unite**  
**Chapter Fifty-Two: Pure of Heart**

Gimli entered the wood carefully, mindful of the long reach of the trees around him. He had only faith to go on that Thranduil had been successful in his part of their venture.

There had been an absence of sound to tell him otherwise. In this the Ring was offering him nothing of a clue. Going forth was the only way he was going to know with any certainty that they could continue in their rescue.

As he crossed the forest threshold, moving from light into dark, he considered the methods of their plan. It had been Treebeard who had pointed out Thranduil's remarkable resemblance to his son, and it had also been the tree lord who explained the ways of Ents and Huorns. Gimli already knew the Ents had difficulty discerning the nuance differences between two-legged creatures, but it had never occurred to him to have Thranduil play the part of Legolas as a means of deceiving the forest's guards. Still, even if such a thing worked, Gimli had found it hard to imagine the Huorns wouldn't recognize that some time had gone by since he and Legolas had entered their wood or that they had done this before. _"Will they not decipher that we have been here weeks past?" he had asked._

_"The keepers of the forest pay little attention to time. It is because we are so long-lived. A season is little different than a day to my brethren," Treebeard had explained in his long, slow way._

And so it was decided that he and Thranduil should replicate the events that lead to Legolas and Gimli's entrance to the wood.

_"The forest guards will not perceive that this is a repetition of events either," Treebeard replied. "They will think it all as a dream."_

_"I do not understand," Thranduil had interjected. "Why would they not know the difference between dream and reality?"_

_"Trees sleep. That is the greatest of their occupations. And with that comes dream. But I would not expect you to know, as Elves do not dream as others might," Treebeard had said in long, slow answer, speaking to Thranduil. Each syllable was drawn out, lengthened in the cadence that was his way of speaking. He had then turned his eyes on the dwarf,_

_Gimli squirmed under the scrutiny of the Ent's deep gaze. He shrugged, dismissing the sudden attention, "Why do you look to me?"_

_"Hroom hoom," the Ent chuckled. "The Firstborn do not rest as you do, Master Gimli Gloinson Dwarf. They are unique in the way they sleep." Of course Gimli knew this for he could recall many a night that he had watched Legolas sleep in the strange manner of elves. During much of the quest in fact, Legolas had slept with his eyes open, ever aware. Too, he could do this while carrying out tasks, though he was somewhat less sure-footed, eyes slightly glazed, words slurring, when he did. But he could carry on and be fully aware in a heartbeat. Sleeping yet awake, that's how Gimli saw it._

_Treebeard continued in his lumbering drawl, "For you it is unusual the way they sleep; and for them too, the way you sleep is strange. But you are more Ent-like than the elves in this, for you dream. An elf," Treebeard looked at Thranduil, "knows nothing of dreams for he never does dream. And so it must be explained to Thranduil-King. As one who dreams, tell us now, Master Dwarf: might you recall ever having a dream that repeats again and again, that perhaps alters and changes each time it occurs?"_

_Gimli did not need to think long on this for indeed he was a dwarf blessed with vivid dreams as Treebeard asked. He had the ability to dream the same dream over and over again. He could even change the outcome of the dream if he put his mind to it. He nodded his head._

_The Ent seemed to expect this. "Weeks have gone by since you came to my woods last, this is true," Treebeard said. "But for an Ent or Huorn or Tree, that time is merely the span of a dream. The sentries will think only that their dream repeats."_

It still seemed a risk to Gimli to enter the woods by the means Treebeard proposed. They were creating a charade. At the same time he acknowledged he would use whatever means of trickery he could if it meant helping Legolas.

The plan was simple. Gimli and Thranduil would enter the wood posing as the elf and dwarf from weeks back. In this they could infiltrate with the least amount of attention for in the Ent's eyes they were small and unobtrusive. Once in, their goal was to return to Mithtaur's realm and spy out Legolas's position. They were then to return to the river to meet with Galadriel and Treebeard, who would enter from the direction of the Ent lord's home. Sweettree and Celeborn would follow as soon as they could.

So far, the plan seemed to be working though Gimli also had to admit that he feared the great forest, especially now that he knew first hand the strength of the tree-creatures. One rogue Huorn was all they needed for their plans to fail.

While he still had light to see, Gimli glanced behind one last time. It was full morning now just as it had been when he had wandered into the woods those weeks back in search of Legolas. Thranduil had departed in the night to face more of the dark, but Gimli would be leaving light to face the dark and he did not relish this act. Yet his friend needed him and that had more power than any anxieties he might bear.

Arod cried out an encouraging whinny. Or at least Gimli perceived it to be. The horse might have been saying good riddance of him for all he knew, but he preferred to believe they had mended their ways. Indeed, he was growing quite fond of the horse. The dappled stallion shook his head before kicking up his heels and trotting off to the river edge. But the animal drew his head up to watch the dwarf, and Gimli could not help but think Arod would enter the wood if the dwarf bid him to. And yet he also seemed to perceive their purpose and did not try to follow. The horse would not be traveling with him, instead keeping watch in the fields, just as he had the last time they had been there. Gimli hoped he would not be needed in the same capacity this time around.

Under the eaves of the forest, he shuddered, drawing in on himself. The noise created by the trees was greater than when he had first come upon the forest in pursuit of two hobbits, and it was certainly louder than when he and Legolas had ventured this path before. Booming creaks and groans followed him as he passed. Overhead the branches of the trees, crisscrossed and merged, created a roof of precarious mass. He looked up as he walked, seeing little sky despite the absence of leaves on the trees; the branches and the detritus that settled upon them all but obliterated any sign of world above the treetops.

This had been Gimli's argument from the start and one that had fed hours of arguing between himself and Legolas. The dwarf would not hesitate to step into a cave, thousands of tons of stone balanced on walls built by fissures or tunneled by underground streams, their stability tentative at best. But here, in this wood, in any wood, he felt wary, the possibility of those heavy branches crashing down on him, lancing him by just the breath of a wind, frightened the dwarf. And in Fangorn, the whim of a malevolent Huorn could do the same. That was even more frightening.

He remembered the thickness of the air the last time he had entered these woods. The weather had made it partly that way. Today it was the tension that kept the air tight.

He found his fingers playing with the Ring then from within the confines of his pocket and he was glad; It gave him calm. 'Vaenduzk,' It sang to him. More times than he could keep count in a day's passing he'd found his hand seeking It in his pocket and he felt better for It.

Yet he knew too that Frodo had been called by the One Ring in much the same way. The Hobbit had resisted that. Why was he able to do what the Dwarf could not?

But Frodo did not resist, not entirely, Gimli recalled. In the end the Hobbit had succumbed to the One Ring's lure. Had it not been for Gollum, the fate of this Middle-Earth might have been something different. But all that while, Frodo had remained true to the Quest. Gimli wanted to believe he was doing the same. His Ring did not seem to be driving him to a dark purpose, or at least none that he perceived.

It is because he was pure of heart, Gimli thought. And that was it, Gimli realized, for he knew that the more horrors Frodo was exposed to, the more difficulty he had resisting the Ring.

I must hold to my heart, Gimli said to himself. If It is determined that I wear It, I must remain true. Else I am no better than my kin before me.

He marched on into the deep, moans and groans mounting thickly around him as he attempted to follow the course he had once set. His path was not a straight line, and he realized now that he was meandering, that some of his previous trail was obscured. The markers he had established - rocks, mounds, exposed earth where a felled tree had opened the ground - were still there, but trees had moved or shifted. Not everything was as it had been, and most certainly the sound was changed. Still, he was able to wind his way to the river and he hoped Thranduil had done the same.

xxx

A considerable time passed. Hours. It was more than Gimli thought would be needed for them to meet up, and he began to wonder of Thranduil's safety. They had agreed to meet near the first bend in the river, but upon arriving at that place, Gimli had seen no sign of the elf and had slowly begun to move past. "Legolas," he called, just as he had back then. With no answer, he moved on, calling again and again as he began to panic.

"I had begun to think I would have to make this journey alone. You tarried long. Will this do as a meeting place?" Thranduil's rich voice startled the dwarf a few minutes later.

He jumped and then cursed. And then he sighed in relief. The elf was safe. Still, he growled beneath his breath, irritated that he had been taken off guard. Surprising him was a game Legolas oft played and he saw now it was a trait the elf's sire seemed to share.

Determined not to show his discomfiture, he turned around. "Good," he said. "Then you are sound. And I did not tarry; you are simply further away than I thought you might be. You could have made sound so I might find you." But he shook his head in further surprise when he turned to see no one behind him.

A noise from above made him cast his eyes that way.

"Should it be sound like this? Why, dwarf? Had you worry for me?" Standing on a tree limb some half dozen meters above was Thranduil, looking more like Legolas than Gimli could have imagined. The elf king's hair flowed loosely about his shoulders though, and his jerkin was a deeper green than Legolas wore. Still, the build of their bodies and the irksome laughter in their smiles made the two elves comparatively alike.

Gimli harrumphed, hiding his unwilling smile behind his beard, but he couldn't disguise the laughter that sparked in his eyes. Thranduil was alive and well. And to boot he was in a tree. That was the last thing he would have expected.

"You are not a Wood Elf," he said, more in reply to the question, but the words served as admonishment too for the queer behavior. He would never have suspected Thranduil to be a tree-climber. The elf seemed too proud, too arrogant for that.

Thranduil glanced down at his feet, as if noticing for the first time that he was perched in in the branches. He cocked his brow regally as he met the dwarf's eyes. "I may not be Silvan in blood, but I rule those people and know their ways. Besides, I am doing my part to act as my son would," he said defensively, not yet spying the dwarf's amusement.

"Legolas would have stood higher in the tree's limbs," Gimli pointed out, enjoying the elf's consternation.

"As would I," Thranduil agreed. He murmured something to the tree on which he leant. Slowly it groaned, and then it moved, bending itself so he might gently leap off. "But as you can see, this is not a tree."

Gimli drew back in the wake of the tree's movement, still quite aware that these creatures were dangerous. At this moment he wished he had his axe. He ducked so as not to be thrashed by the looming branches, but then sighed as the large creature moved away.

"It is a Huorn," Thranduil said casually.

Gimli frowned. "My thanks to you for clarifying that point," the Dwarf replied sarcastically, his anxiety apparent as he watched the tree creature resume its previous shape. Of course it was a Huorn! He knew that!

And though it was after the fact, in fact he had known. He wondered at that, and barely thinking on it, he directed his gaze to another Huorn, nodding at it to prove his knowledge. He said to the elf, "As is that one."

"You know this, do you?" the Elf asked smirking, but he reached out all the same to the tree, and then drew his hand back when that fact was confirmed.

"I do," Gimli replied imperially though it seemed a mystery to him as to how he accomplished this. What had possessed him to be so sure? All the forest keepers looked nearly identical to him. But indeed he did know, for he could feel the tree-creature's feet digging into the earth,

And then he remembered. The Ring! And he realized he now donned It. Yet he was wearing It without intending to do so. He cursed as he pulled It from his finger.

"Perhaps you can tell me then: do Huorns forbid climbing?" Thranduil asked, not perceiving that Gimli was laboring against the jewel. "It would not allow me to venture further into its branches. I find that curious."

That fact drew Gimli's attention though he did not put aside his consternation at the Ring. "I do not know their minds. Could you not just ask it why that is?" Gimli suggested. "You are an elf after all. You speak their language."

"As you point out, I am no Wood-Elf. Speaking with trees does not come so easy to me as it does my son. Even so, the Huorns do not reply when I ask questions of them," Thranduil replied, his brow drawn in thought and Gimli noticed the etched lines of worry that further marred the elf's expression. Thranduil looked fatigued and anxious. Still he showed the same curiosity Legolas possessed. Dire circumstance or not, the elf wondered much of this world. And as if to prove this, he asked, "Were the Huorns of the forest like this when you and Legolas ventured forth?"

"I was not even aware that these trees were Huorns then," Gimli said, gazing about him unsurely. "The Ring seems to give me sense of them. Yet even now, outwardly I see so little difference in how they look." Inwardly though, Gimli could sense them, so long as he wore the Ring at least.

"I can say the same," Thranduil commented, his expression softening and eyes growing distant as he listened. "And their voices are much alike to that of tree too."

"Do they understand our words?" Gimli asked, wondering how much they were espied.

The elf shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. His golden hair fell behind his shoulders with the sweep of his head as he did so, and his eyes, piercing green, came to focus on the dwarf. Again Gimli noted here in the shadows the similarity this elf shared with Legolas. The only outward difference was that Thranduil seemed agitated and the dwarf attributed that to his fears for his son. Gimli could sympathize. He felt the same. "I think not. In fact they pay us little attention. Fangorn said it would be as much and I am pleased to find he was right. We may not recognize on sight the differences between the Huorns and Trees, but the same is true for them to us," the elf said once again touching one of the trunks in much the same manner as Legolas did. Gimli knew that gesture meant he was trying to hear them.

"But you do understand what they say, do you not?" Gimli asked.

"I do. It makes little sense though. They speak of daily life," the elf answered, his eyes closing as if that made his understanding clearer.

"Daily life? Why is that odd?" Gimli asked.

After a moment, the elf opened his eyes and focused them on his hand resting on the trunk. He bowed his head, his brow creasing deeply. "They speak of daily life as if they were like us. Two-legged," Thranduil clarified, looking then at Gimli. He pointed to the Huorn he had been standing in. "This one speaks of working in a kitchen. And over here, the Huorn speaks of hunting."

This time it was Gimli's turn to frown. "I do not think they did that before. At least Legolas did not say anything of it, and I think he would have if they had. In fact, the trees seem much noisier now than they were when we walked here before."

Thranduil said nothing then, but it was clear he was considering that bit of news. The Elf's head lifted then, and he turned sharp eyes on the dwarf, his agitation returned. "And now we linger and my heart grows anxious once more. We should move on, but I dare not venture too deeply too fast. Fangorn is yet needed. Perhaps he can puzzle out these mysteries. Still, I must show you another curiosity before we go on. I wonder if this too was in place when last you visited here."

Thranduil walked further down their path, maintaining the course along the river. He turned, looking back at the dwarf, waiting to see if he would follow. When Gimli did, he nodded, letting the dwarf pass him by a few meters and when they had walked some fifty or so strides, he placed a palm on the dwarf's shoulder to halt him.

"Watch this now," the elf said, and Gimli did as Thranduil started back down the trail from which they had traveled. If Gimli had not been watching he might have missed it. A tree suddenly seemed to sidle into the elf's path. Thranduil paused, but then began to circle past. It was not to happen as a branch then swept down, brushing Thranduil back. The sweeping motion was not violent, but that did not mean it couldn't be. Thranduil took a step further away, circling from a different way, and this time he was swatted back by a completely different tree. The elf dodged the bulk of the branch, but it was clear the creature did not want him going back toward the entrance of the wood.

The elf then glanced back at the dwarf and said impishly, "These would be Huorns."

"Clearly," Gimli replied, but that was not the point.

Gimli started forward but the elf came to him, brushing his fingers over the trunks as he went. He was not halted as he progressed away from the exiting path. "It seems I am meant to go this way," he said, pointing deeper into the wood.

The implication was before them then and Gimli tested it. Would they be allowed to leave? He too walked a reverse of their path. However, he did not wait for the trees to halt him; they moaned a warning and he simply heeded.

Though he appeared distracted and clearly wanting for the sake of his son, Thranduil chuckled. "I think the path for both of us has been determined."

"I do not like this," Gimli muttered, but then admitted, "yet I cannot claim it was different before. Legolas and I did not backtrack. Do we dare go on if we are not to turn back? How can we meet with Treebeard and the Lady if we cannot return to this place?"

Thranduil's amusement ended there. "I will not be kept from my son. Perhaps you should stay and let them know that I traveled on."

"You think I would stay? My concern for Legolas is equal to yours. I would not be stayed. Besides, between the two of us, I know the direction we are meant to go," Gimli replied.

"The Huorns point the way. I do not need you to lead me," Thranduil retorted.

"And I will not be left behind!" Gimli shouted and the argument ended there. Only it did not. Nothing had been resolved. The fact remained that the forest keepers were barring their exit and their progress was being stymied by their fear of not being able to return to this point.

Gimli growled as he considered their choices. And then he wondered if these barred passes were limited to Huorns, or if trees were involved too. He stretched his senses then, seeking out only a tree - a real tree. He could recognize the Huorns by the shallowness of their roots, for they could move. Trees, on the other hand, delved deep and they did not flex their roots as the Huorns did.

And then he found one and he chose to try there to see if he would be blocked as well. Starting to move to it, a Huorn abruptly moved to block him. The motion surprised him, for he could feel it below more than see it above. To his eye, all that could be seen was a shift in the tree creature's position and a small wake in the earth.

He stepped back, brow furrowing. But trying a different route, the Huorn followed. He stepped again, trying to move around the creature to reach that sole tree, but the Huorn seemed to have an interest in preventing him passage. Angered, he growled, ire spiking as he tightened his hands into a fist. The earth rumbled subtly and this time he found the Huorn backed away.

Startled, Gimli stumbled back. "What goes here?" Thranduil asked.

"Did I do that?" the dwarf asked. He focused his mind on the ground once again and the soil there churned. His eyes widened and he found his heart racing in surprise.

Thranduil too seemed stunned. "Is this the power of the Ring? Do you wear It now?"

Gimli glanced down at his hand then. He was shaking his head, but clearly the Ring was there, contradicting his answer. But of course It was, for he had noted the difference in the tree-beings around them, hadn't he? Why had he not realized then that the Ring had once more found Its way to his finger? He cursed, growling. Had he not pulled It off before? "I cannot keep This," he muttered.

But Thranduil was not hearing him. In a soft voice that was filled with awe he said, "I have never seen It work as you demonstrate It here! This is good, do you not think? Perhaps it is right that the Ring is held by you. Clearly you have a natural affinity for It." He stepped closer to the dwarf and placed a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "What more can you do with It?"

The dwarf shook his head. His heart was racing from the fright of his suddenly discovered power. "I dare not experiment to know." And then repeating he said, "I cannot keep It."

"But you must," the elf blustered. "This is how we return! We can use this, Master Dwarf! Do you not see?"

"No, I do not!" the dwarf shouted, surprising himself with the volatility of his reply. But he justified his reaction: he did not like that the Ring had asserted Itself so.

"It appears the Ring gives you power to move earth in a way equal to the Huorns. You have obviously chased that one away." He nodded to the tree creature now many yards away. "We now have a means to return to this place."

The assurance stirred the dwarf's heart, for it was becoming clear that they were making discoveries that could help them. It was his turn to feel a pang of worry at his heart. Legolas was somewhere in this wood and he was alive; they knew this. But now the possibility was mounting that his friend was being hindered from leaving. Somehow he was a prisoner, a hostage of the wood. There was no proof of that yet, only mounting evidence. But the Ring could help them return to report that fact. They must now find his friend. But Gimli could not help hesitating. Was it not also a horror that the Ring had found Its way to his finger once more without his knowledge? And further one that Gimli did not register the change when It was there?

The closeness of their friendship had made it so that at times Legolas could read his thoughts, and here Thranduil seemed to do the same. "You fear It," the elf said, his hand lightly resting on the dwarf's shoulder as strands of his light hair lifted with the touch of a breeze. He looked ethereal, otherworldly and utterly unafraid.

"I did not place It here, Thranduil!" Gimli warned as he waved his hand about. He knew the elf could not see the Ring, but Gimli was sure he understood what he meant.

The elf frowned, sighing. He seemed to be trying to find words to justify what he felt, and Gimli knew he understood the dwarf's recalcitrance. "It... It will do that," Thranduil nodded contritely. "I fear this was not something I could control either. It will try to take control. It wants a purpose. You must be on your guard."

"On my guard? I must be more than that...It is sinister, Thranduil!" the dwarf argued, pulling It off. "How did you bear It all those years? I should not have agreed to take It!"

"I bore It because I thought I could do good with It. And in some ways I did. Not always, but at times. Yet now I see that in your presence I had not a place with this Passion. I wielded it poorly," Thranduil admitted. Gimli felt his heart quake, for he did not know what he should do. Seeing his frustration, Thranduil bowed down onto bent knee so he was looking up at the dwarf. "I am not sure you have a choice, Gloinson for there is no other who can wield it as you. The Ring was made for your kind and you have the power to use It. But I understand your hesitance, your fear. I can help you, Gimli," Thranduil offered.

"How?" Gimli asked warily. He was touched by the offer, but he was also suspicious.

"I will serve as your keeper to protect you from It. Accept that It will seek out your hand so long as you grow preoccupied. You must remain aware of It. But should I see the darkness imbued in this stone start to pervade you, I will warn you. I will help you, for I know too what It will speak to you."

"You have a poor history from which to assure me," Gimli argued feeling sudden bitterness and agitation.

"I have a history I need to amend. I have damaged too many with my actions." Once more, a look of despair marred the elf's face as the corners of his mouth turned down and Gimli read his regrets. He pointed to the jewel in Gimli's hand then. "But I do not believe it was the Ring that did this. I think it was my heart that was corrupted. My anger and resentment lived in me long before I accepted the Ring. You are different, Master Dwarf. You are pure and true," the elf said, his eyes sparkling in something akin to admiration.

Gimli found it difficult to believe the elf king was praising him, and more so using the same words Gimli had ascribed to Frodo.

Yet could Gimli believe he had the skills to master It? This was a minor Ring, he knew, but he was beginning to doubt Its redemption as he had previously thought. It was wily and imbued with more mischief than he had previously thought. The surprise of It was not something the dwarf appreciated. He did not like losing control and it was becoming clear that he was no Frodo.

But the elf's pledge had effect and something told Gimli that possessing the Ring was going to be important, even if it did create reason to pause. Still, the dwarf had to consider. Thranduil indeed had long experience with It and would know when he was straying even if Gimli could not detect It. The dwarf found himself nodding his head in agreement. He opened his hand and, with hesitancy, fingered the Ring. And then swallowing his fears, he nodded. When the time was right, he would don It. "I will hold you to this, Elf. I expect you to safeguard me. This is not my idea."

The elf then straightened and nodded his head, and Gimli realized Thranduil had silently been holding his breath. There was much at stake for them and the fate of this Ring was something that weighed on them too. Like it or not, the Ring was their responsibility.

Thranduil spoke. "I have no gift of foresight, but I believe It will help us. Too many years have been vested in It for It not to have some merit. You are meant to wear It. Keep It close."

And then the long-limbed elf cast his gaze out, as if seeking the next obstacle, and Gimli read the deep anxiety in Thranduil's soul. His heart ached for knowledge of his son. "You feel him still?" Gimli asked.

The elf's face shifted and Gimli could read the answer in his expression. "Is this the direction we should go?" Thranduil replied, pointing to the route ahead as if none of the previous conversation had transpired.

Gimli nodded in answer, taking the refusal to answer his question answer in itself. His own raw worry guided him. Together they continued into the dark.

xxx

They walked for the next hours without conversation and Gimli found himself experimenting with the Ring in the quiet places of their trek. He didn't know if the trees sensed him and his exploration, but there was a quiet here that did not occur in their earlier encounter. But if the trees noticed something different, he did not. The only thing he noticed was that the sensations of the earth were clearer to him when he wore It. But as they went on he could feel more and more of the ground around them, and as they mounted the final rise of the land, coming at last upon the place where he and Legolas had sheltered in the hollow of the tree, he noticed even more.

They paused for a moment at that former resting place, and Gimli saw Thranduil's eyes go wide as he appreciated the resonant sense of his son's former presence in this place.

Leading the way, Gimli walked into the small hollow he and Legolas had rested in. He saw that their weapons were just as they had been left. This told him Legolas had never returned to that spot and he found that disappointing. Sighing with regret, he pondered what this meant for Legolas as he donned his helm and mail, strapping on his weapons, feeling the weight of his axe once more in his hand. He could only imagine Legolas would feel naked without his bow. But that he had not returned to get it told him the elf could not return.

Removing himself from the hold then and looking further up the rise, he found his senses opened, as if something great was present. An inexplicable feeling, something akin to a yearning, was pulling him in that direction. He decided they should followed his feelings.

He looked at Thranduil who fingered Legolas's bow and quiver, running his eyes over the handle of his son's knife. Sorrow showed in the corners of his face and Gimli could see the depth of his regret as the elf drew a hand to his heart, his head bowed. The dwarf knew the effect of elven remorse, and he could not let Thranduil dwell upon his aches.

"He is here," Gimli said to Thranduil and he saw the elf lift his head as if trying to discern just that fact. And then Thranduil drew a deep breath and nodded, seemingly pushing aside his regret as if he too recognized Legolas's presence. "Follow me," the dwarf commanded as he watched Thranduil shoulder his son's bow and quiver for their venture.

Gimli led the way once more, his concentration increasing as he chose the path going uphill to the lake. It was as if his feet were guiding him, but in truth he knew it was the Ring. He sensed It was drawn forward, and somehow a connection existed between his Passion and this place. Overriding the stone, he could have gone back to the ledge where he and Legolas parted, where Legolas had told him Narvi and the Mírnen elves had been buried alive, where they had tumbled down the cliff face to the swollen river. But he did not for he sensed nothing of his friend there. Yes, indeed, the Rind did have powers. It was the lake he must seek, he was certain. It was almost as if he could feel a presence there. Was this the same as the Song Thranduil claimed to hear?

He had nothing to measure from so had to assume it so. He could feel Legolas's being though he could sense nothing of what Legolas felt. And perhaps that was the difference between his power and the innate connection of Thranduil to his son. Here too was another strength they could wield, Gimli thought, and he came to liken their joined powers to weapons they would use in the hard fight.

But he was no fool. He halted Thranduil before they made the last climb. "We must be wary," he said. "Legolas came here and Greywood became enraged with his trespass. We cannot be seen lest that part of the past repeat as well."

They made it to the crest of the ridge coming from the northwest. Keeping within the shadows of the wood, Gimli looked out upon the remnants of what had at one time been the settlement of Mírnen. Before them lay the grey unmoving mass of the formerly known Jeweled Lake. His eyes searched for his friend on the opposite shore, as did his heart. He saw nothing. But he could feel, and so he turned his senses there.

The lake was not of tremendous size, less than ten acres he would guess, but that was still large enough to support an island at its heart. Treed by willows, it was shrouded with the brown drape of late-falling leaves. They obscured his view. Nothing seemed to move nor was there great sound, and with that modest calm he stepped forward so as to glance further about.

At the lake shore to his left was a large clearing of bramble that amassed between the water's edge and the cliff, looking out onto the plains. The ground on the flat was trampled and uneven, as if marched upon by a den of trolls, but it seemed newly done with branches snapped to show new wood. He knew below the precipice was the cliff where he and Legolas had attempted to flee the mad Ent. If he looked there now he expected the remnants of the mudslide that had taken them to the river still existed. And somewhere there too was the grave of Narvi and all the elven colonists who had fled Sauon's destruction.

Opposite was the westward lee of forest and mountains, and he could hear the sound of a spring trickling fresh water from the higher plains into a near pool. Without moving, he spotted the singing brook and recognized it to be an Ent spring. He remembered the Ent feast and the hospitable bounty they had been supplied, as well as the free access to Sweetree's well from which he and Legolas drank. He remembered that font's inebriating effect and suspected this must be Greywood's draught. At that feast he had learned that all Ents had one.

And then he turned south so he was again looking at the lake, this time giving it greater inspection. His nose wrinkled at the rank smell of it. Within its brown depths he saw fungal growth. It broke the water surface and reminded him of pussy wounds. His stomach turned at the sight. Poison, he immediately thought as he stared into the water, believing the liquid a remnant of the evil cast upon these woods by Sauron. Long those years were, but the effect of the Dark Lord's attack could still be seen and felt.

He eyed the Ent spring again, thinking of this lingering darkness. The small trickle of water running from the mountains seemed clear and pure. But he also noticed that the stream split, half merging with the water of the lake, half flowing into the Ent's drink pool. Overflow from the lake also trickled into the pool, and Gimli regarded the merged water with concern and realization. That must be what Greywood drinks! he thought. No wonder that he is half mad if that is his draught! A stream carried the overflow down the slopes and Gimli imagined that if he followed the sound of it he would find it emptied into the river at the base of the wall. Poison mixed with purity, he thought, shaking his head. The water from the river would carry the lake water outward and onward toward the sea, and he supposed it dissipated the foulness over the course of distance and time. That calmed him, for he would hate to think of these remnants of Sauron's evil tainting the world beyond. Beyond on the Celebrant, the darkness was healed.

Yet here, the lake water was undiluted, and he had no doubt it was the source of this wood's sickly state.

Gimli studied the lake again. He saw the still surface of the water reflect the clear sky. But his brow furrowed as he realized that though the day was grand, the sun high and bright, in that mirrored glass of water, the witchery of this place disconcertingly shone the world as something dismal and grey. He was startled by this. Was it just the optics of looking into sickly pool that created the effect?

He wondered that he had not noticed it before; he started to say as much to Thranduil but something choked the words in his throat. A new sense stirred in him. It was a feeling of familiarity and longing that came upon him suddenly. Simultaneously he felt suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed. The pounding in his heart grew and his arms became heavy. His fingertips tingled and he found his breath hard to draw. Something was wrong! He could not move. And more, he could not turn away. A vibration, an agitation moved him. And the longer, the deeper he looked into the waters of the lake, the more it grew. His eyes were transfixed by the illusion of the lake's reflection while his stomach twisted. The sense of familiarity solidified as his breath quickened.

Thranduil stepped forward suddenly and gasped. That was enough to break the spell, and stumbling back, Gimli weakly looked at the elf. Thranduil seemed not to notice the dwarf's ill state. Instead he was gaping out at the island. Gimli followed the elf's eyes.

There was movement now, and the low rumble of the wood about them resumed as the trees on the island began to sway. Rocking and turning, the willows that resided on that opposing shore began to trade positions. The curtains of their branches began to open, and Gimli could see into the heart of that land. At their center stood Mithtaur, and cradled in his arms lay an unmoving figure.

"Legolas," Thranduil murmured.

But neither Gimli's eyes nor his heart could focus on what Thranduil said. Unwillingly, his gaze was pulled away to the strange water. Something there was drawing him and he was lost to it, compelled to obey the force it had over him. He could not look away.

He could not look away.

TBC


	54. Distraction

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_**Part Four: When Worlds Unite**_  
_**Chapter Fifty-Three: Distraction**_

Gimli was thrown to the ground, his teeth rattling in his head with the sudden impact of the fall, and immediately his head thrummed with the ache of the blow. Rallying, he curled his fingers, digging them into the loamy soil and then threw a handful into the face of his attacker. Following on that move, he instinctively flailed out at his assailant, his hand drawn into a fist. But his right arm was pinned beneath him while the left was grabbed, and too quickly to make sense of the move, a knee pressed into his chest trapping him into an unmovable position.

Still, he fought, legs kicking, hips bucking. He would not be kept!

A silky veil fell over his eyes as a voice spoke in his ear. "Come to yourself! Come to yourself now!"

The dwarf blinked to sudden wakefulness and he realized he had been blind to what was about him. He found himself staring into the angry green eyes of Thranduil, and he paused. How he had come to be in such a position? He could not recall. "Wh...?" he started, stilling as he tried to reason the circumstances.

"Take It off!" Thranduil demanded pulling Gimli's hand forth. He struggled to pry open the dwarf's fist.

"What? No!" Gimli argued, realizing the elf was trying to take the Ring from him. His ire flared again. Thranduil had all but pushed the Ring upon Gimli and now he was stealing It back? "Mine!" he began to shout but a hand was clapped over his mouth, essentially silencing him.

Thranduil bent close then but his voice could be heard despite his whispered words. "Hush! He will hear you. Be silent now!"

That was the moment Gimli realized where they were and why stealth was required. _Fangorn. Mirnen. The lake. _With new understanding he complied, and after a minute Thranduil removed his hand from the dwarf's mouth, pushing off the supine figure. Regardless, the elf kept low, as if hiding away. He glanced past the bristly brush and out toward the lake and clearing. Seemingly satisfied, he ducked his golden head and glanced back at Gimli. His brows came together in agitation and once more he instructed, "Take It off, I say, lest It possess you again."

Gimli felt lost then. What did the elf mean? Possessing him? Had something happened? He could not recall what had occurred that required Thranduil to push him to the ground.

It seemed his expression was enough to convey his confusion, for the elf looked at him squarely, his brow softening. He pursed his lips as he shook his head. Sighing, he explained, "We were nearly seen by the Ent. I told you to drop, but instead you remained standing in plain sight. Do you not recall?"

The words stirred no memory and Gimli shook his head. Thranduil turned a pointed gaze at the hand on which Gimli wore the Ring. The dwarf knew one of elfkind could not see a Dwarven Ring but that did not stop Gimli from feeling ashamed that the elf sensed it. "I promised to guard you from _that_ and I am telling you now you must remove It."

That the elf was demanding as much from him made Gimli aware that he had somehow failed as a Ringbearer. Though he had no memory of it, he grasped what Thranduil was saying and he immediately did as he was told, pulling the Ring from his finger and dropping it heavily into his pocket. Humiliated that he had fallen under the Ring's spell, he frowned. He had many questions to ask. For one, if the Ring was capable of making him lose himself, why had Thranduil insisted he keep It near, that he use It? But he could not ask. Not now, for he could remember. They were in too dangerous a place to converse on such a topic for Legolas needed them to be wary.

_Legolas._

Thranduil sighed in relief then as he once again looked out past their hiding place. Seeming to find it safe, he leaned his head back, gazing to the treed ceiling over their heads. He whispered, "We are not seen. We are safe. Alas the same cannot be said of Legolas."

"Have you seen Legolas?" Gimli asked, creeping to forest edge where Thranduil knelt.

"You do not remember? The Ring had you enraptured. Do you even remember coming to this rise?" the elf king asked.

"Of course," Gimli scowled. "It was just... something was calling my attention away. The water, I think... there is something wrong with the water here." He edged closer to the king as he said this, coming to his knees.

"The water? Ai, my nose tells me as much. But it was also clear you were dazed. I told you then to take the Ring off, and when you did not, I threw you to the ground. I am sorry for that but we were nearly seen." He nodded ahead and Gimli looked to where he directed. There, on the other side of the lake, was Greywood. The old Ent was swaying from side to side, rocking in the same manner Gimli had seen the oliphaunts of the Easterlings do. The creature lolled from side to side, milling like the deck of a ship. And too, he was singing. Contentedly he thrummed on, droning notes that were deep and resonant. Even from the distance Gimli could hear him and it seemed the Ent truly was serene and oblivious to their presence.

The elf continued. "The willows moved and then Mithtaur was there." Gimli noticed then the movement of the other trees on the island; broad, lacelike willows swayed in time to the music Greywood made. Further, they rocked softly, gently as if they were nursing a child and Gimli was startled by how delicate their movements were. Thranduil continued, "Mithtaur looked out across the water and I thought that surely he sought us. But that has not been so. I do not think he knows we are here, and fortunately these Huorns have not given our presence away." He nodded to the trees around them. "They have not joined in the singing."

Gimli too noticed the silence of the trees as he watched the Ent. But his thoughts did not stay on the peace but instead focused on something else. The willowed Huorns were occupied in task, working together, twining their limbs into the limbs of one another and Gimli likened them to some of the women he had seen in Minas Tirith, grooming each other before a great feast. He was intrigued by their actions for the five or six clustered near one another, roaming back and forth, in and out like ducks swimming a water surface. Though their masses were huge, balanced in the branches of several of them lay a fruit of some sort and this he realized is why he made the connection to women. It was as if the trees wore jewels or decoration. But these were not for adornment. What they carried had purpose. _Are those gourds...?_ Gimli thought. _Hollowed shells?_ He could not tell for certain.

As he watched them arrange and rearrange the shells, their purpose grew more and more clear, for not only did they maneuver those small vessels between them but they also passed a larger object. His heart thudded suddenly, wildly, and his eyes grew wide as he saw that within the cradle of those bent branches they held Legolas! Gimli could not believe his eyes. Legolas was here! Here! Without thinking, he gave voice to the sight, "Legolas!"

But immediately he was shushed by the elf at his side.

He began to protest that the discovery was not being rejoiced, but quickly glancing at Thranduil he found his elation falling flat. Seeing the elf's expression in witnessing the same event made him realize they did not see the same thing and he had to remind himself that Thranduil had been witness to more than he. Eyes locked to the scene, Thranduil indeed did see, but he looked as if to cry in sorrow and deep worry instead of like cheer. The elf's eyes glistened with moisture unshed, and at the same time, an expression of extreme anger creased his brow. This was not a celebratory moment.

He looked back again to see what he had missed and recognized suddenly the circumstance. Legolas did not move. The Huorns were passing his limp form one to another but they also drew the fruit from their limbs and pressed them to his lips. That was the single clue that told him Legolas lived for the elf protested modestly to the plying. _Do they feed him?_ Gimli wondered. Legolas raised a hand and tried to push the husk away, but the motion was feeble and he was unsuccessful at staving the tree creatures off.

After a moment's protest, he dropped his arms limply to his sides and was passed into Greywood's arms, his head lolling on the stem of his neck, too heavy to be lifted it seemed. He fell back into a lifeless position again, arms stretched out with complete abandon and surrender, shifted into the arms of that hovering tree.

It made Gimli's stomach turn. He had seen Legolas in many states, but never one of such as this. Injured, tired, angered, glib, vengeful and mirthful - these were all facets he had witnessed in his elven friend. But this... helpless... lifeless... his heart twisted in his chest. He knew not what he could do and, recognizing that, he understood Thranduil's mien. He could cry for the anxiety eating at him.

The Ent held him upright, like some newborn babe. But the elf lifted his head as if he had heard Gimli's cry. It may have been a coincidence, Gimli realized, for his friend's eyes seemed to register little. It was clear to Gimli that Legolas was not conscious. He appeared unfocused, lost in one of those expressions Gimli associated with the dreamless world of elven sleep. He was certain the drink was responsible for his friend's state. It must be some kind of elixir they gave him.

He found himself twisting his fingers into his beard, an old habit that showed itself in times of stress. At least he was not reaching for the Ring, he thought.

He looked again at Thranduil, who still looked out over the lake. Gimli noted once more that he shared Legolas's profile, his long straight nose, his high thoughtful brow, the recess of his penetrating green eyes. His expression reminded Gimli of Legolas in times of great stress like those moments before the final battle at the Black Gates. He remembered all the horrors of Mordor that had spewed out upon the Morgoth Vale. Like Legolas then, Thranduil's brow was creased, his eyes were wide, and his mouth was pinched as if he bit the inside of his cheek. And in his mind, this horror was equal.

"What are we to do? We have scouted him out and are expected back. Yet we must help him somehow," the dwarf said.

"We cannot leave, even if we dare try. You will recall that the Huorns blocked our path when we tried to turn back. We are pressed here," Thranduil whispered.

"I suppose then it is up to us to rescue him," Gimli said. He had no plan but it was not beyond him to try something so grand. Looking at Legolas, his heart was winning out over any caution chiming within his head.

Surprisingly, the sound of their quiet conversation seemed to rouse his friend. Perhaps it was another coincidence but Legolas lifted his head once more, looking their way, as if trying to find them with his eyes.

Gimli found encouragement in that, for their distance was several hundred feet. This time Legolas looked as if to try and push himself erect. But Greywood did not relinquish. It might have been the elf spoke too; his lips moved. But if he did his voice did not carry. Yet he saw! Gimli was sure of that. He saw the dwarf. And then as if all his strength had left him Legolas's head fell back and his eyes rolled skyward once more.

It was not much but it was an activity the Ent did not seem to appreciate. From across the body of water, Mithtaur lifted his head and moaned a deep rumble. Thranduil clutched at Gimli's arm then, pulling him deeper into the shadows as the trees about them began to moan in imitating sound. The vibration of it worked through his body. Gimli tensed. Had they been seen? Were they in danger?

Thranduil held his grip on the dwarf's arm and whispered, "Do not move." And Gimli did exactly this, complying as only a dwarf could. In his craft, precise stillness was sometimes required. Thranduil then whispered reason to his command, "They will settle once more into their dreams if we remain still." Gimli has not thought that, but Thranduil was an elf of the wood so he supposed he would know a thing or two of trees. And true to this observation, the trees - _Huorns_, the dwarf amended - seemed to quiet, their moans and creaks softening the longer he and Thranduil remained.

"You may breathe, of course," Thranduil whispered into his ear, a smile touching the sound of his words.

Of course Gimli had been breathing, but he could not help but smile at the chiding. He dared a glance at Thranduil, grateful for his guidance; the elf gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. And though they were in the shadows of the trees, they could still see. Finding a small bit of relief from the threat of the trees, Gimli craned his neck so as to look again at his friend.

Seeming to have already forgotten Legolas's searching gaze into the wood, Greywood tended him once more, lifting his head and shoulders and pouring the contents of a hollowed shell over his legs. That struck Gimli as odd. "What is it being done to him? How is he hurt?" he asked.

He had not really expected a reply, but Thranduil gave one anyway. His elven eyes could clearly see more than Gimli's. "His leg is torn with a wound and he has several bruises across his face and brow. I can only see what is outward, but his eyes are now closed." Gimli frowned. They both knew that news was ill.

"He looks drugged," Gimli offered.

"It may be he suffers a head injury," Thranduil suggested. "Though drugging would be preferrable." He looked over at Gimli then, a brief glance that merely affirmed his anxiety and the dwarf could see the fine lines around the elf's eyes, the pinching tightness created by fatigue and worry. "If it is injury, it is not unexpected," he continued, grimly looking again into the distance that separated them from Legolas. "We both knew he would be stricken somehow."

Indeed, Gimli did know this, but now that he was there it did not help. He frowned when Greywood's huge body blocked his view and he found himself leaning outward so he might see past. And then he realized the Ent had passed the elf off once more to the Huorns. "What do you think the others will do when we do not return?" he asked, thinking that he would not leave Legolas now even if the opportunity presented itself to do so.

"Eventually, I suppose, they will seek us out," Thranduil replied.

"That could be as dangerous as making our presence here known," Gimli added. "For Legolas as well as ourselves." He could feel the Ring pulling him to use It and he began to suspect it was his uncertainty that drew him to It. But what could he do? Any purpose he gave It would just draw attention to them.

Thranduil's eyes searched the forest with sharp scrutiny then. "If we turn back, the Huorns will block us, and quite likely alert Mithtaur of our presence. If we stay, it seems we go unnoticed. In time Fangorn and the company will come to us. I prefer the latter, I think, for an Ent can rule his own kind. But other opportunities may present themselves too if we hold."

Gimli would agree, yet he found his voice catching in protest when he saw the Huorns passing around his friend, like children playing and eagerly petting a lone kitten. But then Greywood suddenly began to move, lumbering to where the Huorns tended Legolas. And then he lifted the elf away, gently scooping him up so he lay in the crook of his arm. Legolas remained pliant through it all, not even lifting his hand to protest this time, and Gimli found that troubling. Their decision to remain in waiting meant they would have to witness this, but he was not sure he had the stomach to be complacent to it. "We must get him out of there," he whispered to Thranduil.

The elf smiled, nodding. "Patience. It may be the Ent carries out the task for us. Look!"

And with that, Greywood turned and looked out across the lake. His eyes inspected the opposite shore where Gimli and Thranduil hid, but he did not seem to spy the pair kneeling in the thicket of briar and yew. Instead, his gaze went further, to the small clearing of dead grasses and brush Gimli had earlier observed. A moment later it became apparent that was where the Ent would go.

"Now we know the way across," Thranduil commented. And Gimli could see how it was, for as Greywood stepped, the hidden path just beneath the surface of the water was revealed to them. The water of the lake was not deep in all places it seemed.

He watched as the tree lord crossed the channel between the two landmasses, Legolas in his arms. His grey, mossy feet, like two stumps, beaten and pulpy, were creating barely a ripple on the surface of the water. Gimli found this odd, for the Ent was large and even in shallow water, his steps would have made a splash. Yet it was as if the water was untouched.

"Thranduil," he began. "The water. It is not right. Do you see?" But he immediately silenced himself as the Ent looked in their direction. His gaze did not linger though, and just as he had looked before, Greywood veered off toward the weather-worn meadow. It was then that Gimli noticed the Ent's song. It was not just a moan but a series of groans and deep rumbles that bellowed low from the creature at a level more felt than heard. He realized it was only with proximity that he could sense it to its greatest effect.

"His song sounds much like the voices of the others we earlier met," the elf said, but his head was canted and he appeared puzzled or somehow intrigued.

"Can you discern meaning from it?" Gimli asked, guessing that the elf was indeed seeking the answer to what was said in the Ent's song.

"He speaks words here where the others did not vocalize. I begin to understand him." Thranduil said no more then, his eyes lit on the creature, his attention clearly focused on this task.

But Gimli grew increasingly impatient, and after a minute's wait he interjected. "And...?" he prompted.

Thranduil shook his head, as if awaking from a trance. But then he said, "The song moves slowly, but I think he is telling a story." The elf paused then, his expression telling of the concentration he placed in deciphering the sounds laid before them. They continued to watch as Greywood, with continued care, found a place free of toppled trees or laden limbs, to lower Legolas to. The grass parted where he was placed, creasing with the sound of brittle crispness. To Gimli's disappointment and fear, Legolas still did not stir though he was near enough to see his chest rise and fall with labored breath, and he thought perhaps he even saw Legolas's lips move in whispered words.

Thranduil stirred slightly at his side, and when Gimli looked at him again he saw the elf's face had grown stern. Nodding to the Ent, he said, "He speaks of the elf colony that once lived here... and Faeldaer."

"That does not surprise me," Gimli muttered. "He spoke of these before in his addled way."

"There is more though," Thranduil frowned. "Legolas sings with him."

"Legolas is singing?" Gimli asked.

"His voice is but a whisper, but he sings. It is as if he repeats what he hears," Thranduil nodded grimly. It seemed he did not like what he was able to translate for this bit of knowledge did not encourage him.

They watched for a time more though nothing changed. The Ent simply stood over the supine figure of the elf, singing and swaying ever so slowly, as if he had no other duty than this. Gimli found himself growing frustrated as time wore away, for he worried that, even should the others come, Legolas was too near the reach of the Ent to be freed. With one blow, or even a misplaced foot, Greywood could kill Legolas if he so chose. Or at least he could threaten such if pushed by others. Gimli had no idea how they were going free him, and he felt for himself as if he too was surrounded and imprisoned. He hoped then, as fearful as he was for Legolas's proximity to the Ent, that Treebeard was bringing a host of assistance. True, Greywood was but one, but here, in his private realm, it seemed he ruled many Huorns.

And just as he thought this, the Ent stepped away. He held a gourd in his large, limb-like hand, just as he had at the island, and as he pivoted his eyes slid past the hiding place Gimli and Thranduil shared. He looked at the small pool that served as the well for the Ent's drink and Gimli knew he would go there. Long, cranelike legs traipsed the distance, and the Ent bent, filling the shell with the rank liquid. Gimli fully expected the Ent to drink his draught then, for he was sure this was the cause of the tree creature's madness, but instead Greywood turned and ambled back to the place where Legolas lay, Propping Legolas up against a large stone, the Ent proceeded to feed Legolas the liquid just as had been done on the island.

Panicked, Gimli grabbed Thranduil's arm as if this might stay him. "No, no, this is not right! Thranduil. I think they poison him!"

"Poison? How so?" the elf started.

"I thought it so before but now I see. There is something wrong with the water here. That is not a normal Ent draught he is being fed. A normal draught would explain Legolas's state. Remember that I spoke of the moot and what came of Legolas when he drank the Ent draught there? He merely slept - and _dreamed_. But here," Gimli pressed, "the Ent Draught is merged with the water of that lake!"

"I agree it is foul but-"

"The lake water is strange! There is something wrong with it! When I wore the Ring before, my eyes were compelled there. I could not look away. I was fixed, as if some power within the water kept me there. Thranduil, there is something - a presence even -within the water!"

The elf paused, as if digesting this strange news. Slowly his face grew even grimmer. "And Legolas drinks of it?"

It seemed the Ent was then satisfied in his ministrations. He lowered the cup and walked some many meters away to ply the same drink to a small shrub that somehow managed a verdant hue in this richly darkened wood of rusts and browns.

"What is he doing now?" Gimli asked, impatient and upset. The Ent wandered further away, somehow discerning there were other plants in need of his stewarding. His long strides took him dozens of meters away and he seemed to be proceeding on, moving his way along the lake shore, away from them and Legolas. It was an opening, the one he had been looking for. The dwarf nearly jumped at their good fortune. "Legolas is being left alone! It is now that we must act. We have to find a way to free him, while the opportunity is here."

"We need a plan," Thranduil said as he gathered his feet beneath him, clearly eager to do whatever he must to save his son. Whatever poisoning was occurring, it seemed enough to make him want for action. All the while his eyes had remained fixed on his son. All Gimli could see was his profile, but that was enough for him to note the strain of the elf's features.

"What do you propose?" Gimli asked, ashamed to admit he could think of none else but to rush forth and snatch his friend away.

Thranduil's lips formed a thin line as his eyes narrowed. It was almost as if his mind was ticking through an inventory of options and his thoughts alit on one. He nodded and turned to fully face the dwarf. "I will create a distraction," he said.

"A distraction," the dwarf echoed. And in saying it, Gimli's mind seemed to fix on the elf's plan, seeing it clearly revealed as he spoke.

"I will turn against our path. As we know, the Huorns will try to stop me. Hopefully they will trumpet out and Mithtaur will come to see what it is they clamor about. That will leave Legolas here for you to draw him back," Thranduil continued.

"And what if he takes Legolas with him when seeks out the source of alarm?"

"Then I shall be caught," Thranduil frowned, but he shrugged this doubt away. "What is important is we try. I cannot imagine we will have a better chance to free him on our own. Galadriel said we had not much more time, and I can see now what she meant. It is not that he is drugged, it is that he is poisoned. That is what I feel of him. That is how he dies."

"Are we wise to try?" Gimli asked in a brief moment of doubt. "I am the one who can move the trees through my mastery of the Ring."

"I think that is a skill better used to get Legolas out of here once he's been retrieved. Besides, I am the one who shares a resemblance to Legolas. I stand a better chance of catching the Huorn's attention because of that. They might think it is he who tries to escape whereas you are a dwarf who suddenly can move trees by aid of a Ring."

Thranduil looked pointedly once more to his son. "I think time is working against us. Look at him. Look at how he breathes." Then clapping a hand to the dwarf's shoulder he said, "Just remember that if you are threatened, you must use the Ring."

"First you say 'Use It.' Then you say 'Don't use It.' Now you say 'Use It again.'" Gimli groused, but he did not mean it. He was simply biding his time as he watched Greywood amble slowly away.

"It is a dangerous thing, Friend Dwarf," Thranduil admonished quietly and Gimli felt a sudden surge of affection for this elf.

"As is what you do," he replied, then added, "Do you presume to take Legolas's place?"

"I presume not to be caught," the elf quipped, and the slight humor lightened Gimli's heart. "I will hide in the burrow of the dead tree where you and Legolas rested if I can reach it. But should I be trapped, I will not hesitate to switch places with my son, Gimli. Do not worry for me though. Get Legolas out of there, that is all I ask." He saw the expression the dwarf wore and he laughed softly. "I do not intend to remain kept. I have mobility where my son clearly does not."

"Legolas's immobility came as a result of being held by that tree lord. It seems to me he delivered it when Legolas sought to flee," Gimli reminded.

"I will be safe," Thranduil said as he shifted in his crouched position.

"And when would you presume we begin?" Gimli asked, eyeing the Ent once more.

"Now," the elf said, and then he was gone.

Gimli began to protest but knew he was arguing with no one. And so he watched instead, waiting for the opening he needed to rescue his friend.

**TBC**


	55. IllConceived Plans

**Dark Forest**_  
By Anarithilien_

**_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Fifty-Four: Ill-Conceived Plans_**

As far as Thranduil was concerned, he was fast running out of options. In his mind he had three that he could call upon, but in all honesty he had not thought he would need more than the one he had originally pursued. As he made his way through the wood it was becoming abundantly clear that that was not true.

He ran, letting his legs carry him on a zigzag pattern through the wood, hoping that at any moment the sweeping brush of branches would be at his back. Or better, before him. He longed to feel the quaking shudder of the earth rumbling as Ent feet followed him. In fact, it was what he had counted on, but it was obvious he had misread the situation. Neither the Huorns nor their master followed.

That left him his two other choices. He could either turn back and confront Mithtaur directly, or he could keep running to the point of rendezvous with Galadriel and Fangorn back at that first bend in the river. He was not keen on the first choice for Mithtaur was even more unpredictable than the Huorns he ruled, and Thranduil feared what the Ent would do to Legolas should Thranduil startle or overwhelm him. But the second option appealed to him even less for he had pledged to Gimli that he would draw Mithtaur away; he was certain the dwarf would not cater well to such a dramatic change of plans especially given that the dwarf was now left to try and get Legolas out of there. Besides, he was so near achieving his goals and he was not about to desert his son to seek out the safer way after all he had done to reach him.

He stopped where he was and looked at the wood about him. Running his hand over the trunk of the nearest tree he determined it was indeed a Huorn. Desperately, in a moment of pique, he gave vent to his frustration. "Heed me!"

His words hung in the air like a cloud, stymied and made leaden by the heavy limbs of the trees. Yet he was making noise and it was liberating to realize it. He was willing then to sacrifice the stealth he had previously coveted, for he recognized that any noise could draw the attention of Mithtaur. Realizing that this was an option he hadn't earlier considered, he railed at the wood about him. "Awake! Awake!" he shouted to the circle about him. "Awake, you cursed sluggards! You do your jobs poorly! Awake!"

And then he waited.

Nothing.

Cursing, he continued his litany of abuse. "You forbade me to climb before! If I go there now will you dare stop me? I think you are too dim to even notice that I could be escaping — or worse, seeking out the aid of the lord of all these woods."_ Perhaps that will do it,_ he thought. And up he went into the branches of the unmoving forest guardian before him.

Still nothing.

"Why do you not react?" he cried out plaintively.

He sought the next tree then, continuing his rant as he did. "If this one will not react, perhaps another might." And then he leapt.

But when nothing more happened next he cried out, "Stop me, damn you!" He had been certain of his plans, certain that the trees would try to do exactly that. "Stop me!" he repeated as he leapt again, landing in the next tree and then petulantly stomping his feet when nothing happened. He climbed higher. "Why will you not pay me heed?" he shouted in renewed frustration.

Each tree looked the same but his fingers grazed their trunks. These were Huorns, each and every one of them, but they acted like trees. They acted like they were timid.

"I must try. I must try. For Legolas's sake," he continued. And then deciding that there would be no better means of drawing the Ent away, he shouted, "Mithtaur! Mithtaur, come!" He pushed the option of fleeing to find Galadriel and Treebeard completely from his mind completely. "Mithtaur, come notice me!"

A smile settled on his face as he reconciled himself to his newest idea. He had no doubts about what he was about to do. He turned around on the branch to glance the direction back to the lake.

It was then that he was snatched from his perch.

xxxxxx

Gimli waited for some kind of sign so he could venture forth, but nothing happened. He glanced past the brush, eyes tracking the wandering figure of Greywood before daring gaze back to his friend. Left out in the open meadow, alone, Legolas rested still against a rock. His eyes were open and they were exploring the sky but they were also vacant, as if lost in reverie. And then his head dropped back as if it was too heavy to hold.

"Legolas," he whispered, regretting that he did not yet feel safe to move. But Legolas's head lifted, gazing out in the direction to which Gimli hid though he appeared not to see the dwarf.

He heard a shout in the distant woods and Gimli guessed it was Thranduil's attempt to gain the Ent's attention. Greywood, moaned and Gimli felt a moment of fright for both himself and Thranduil. He had not forgotten the power of that old Ent or the madness that influenced his actions. Greywood turned and gazed about his surroundings, looking to and then past the place Gimli hid. The dwarf remained low enough to the ground and it seemed he went unnoticed. So too did Legolas, the Ent seeming to have forgotten him. There was another shout, and Gimli was certain Greywood would follow it, so obvious was it that there was someone roaming the woods. But the Ent seemed oblivious. A minute later he went back to his distant work, his lazy dreaming.

Was that all that was to come? It seemed a good idea on Thranduil's part but it clearly was not going to work. Something else would need to come. Gimli was ready to act. He could not remain as he was.

"Legolas!" he whispered.

The elf was a distance away but it was clear his hearing was good for he drew his eyes to follow Gimli's voice and this time he tracked him. He smiled, though the recognition was weak. "Gimli," he mouthed and the dwarf felt his heart lift. Legolas knew him!

But as encouraging as he found this, the truth was that Legolas looked horrible. His clothing was torn and his hair was in disarray. They had been through battles together but never had Legolas looked so unkempt. He was covered in dirt and scratches, and his eyes did not look right.

He waved to the elf. "It would be better if you came to me," he whispered, knowing the elf could hear him. But Legolas just laughed, turning his eyes instead to the sky. Apparently he did not agree.

"Very well then. I can only wait so long for your father to act though," Gimli muttered. Still there was no sign that the elf king was finding means to draw further attention from Greywood. All was quiet in the wood except for the soft music being sung by the Ent and some of the accompanying trees.

Gimli gazed beyond, keeping himself low to the land before cursing, "Smaug all mighty." Bereft of any other choice, he knew he must act alone. Perhaps if Thranduil could not draw the Ent away by other means, he would come back and offer Gimli help in this.

Evasively he ran, charging forward toward the elf. Legolas was murmuring words, but Gimli could not hear them. Instead he put his head down and ran.

He dove into the grass that Legolas lay in and not for the first time he thanked Mahal for gracing him with speed and stealth. His short stature made it easy for him to keep low, and his burly form gave him the outward appearance of a boulder not dissimilar to the one that Legolas leaned against. His elven cloak only helped to complete the illusion.

"At last! At last!" he gasped, reaching his hands out to brush Legolas's though he glimpsed over his shoulder to assure himself the Ent was not coming. And then bending low to Legolas, he spoke. "By rock and stone, what has come to you, my friend?" as he pressed a hand to his friend's fevered brow. Those had not been the words he had intended to say upon meeting with his friend, but now that the elf was before him, he could not keep himself from questioning what he saw. It was one thing to see his friend at a distance in obvious ill health; that had been frightening enough. Now Legolas was before him and he could see up close there was much wrong with him.

He pulled his hand away as he spotted what he thought might be the cause of his friend's illness. There was a tear in the elf's legging and blood both fresh and dried on the elf's clothing, deeply staining it. Wryly, the dwarf recognized that the injury was in the same place as that old wound Legolas had suffered as a youth. Gimli did not want to think on the repercussion of that for there were greater things to consider at the moment. With his heart pounding and his hands slightly shaking, he lifted the cloth of the torn garment and spied the gaping wound. He winced. Ragged and weeping, it looked as if the injury had come from a serrated blade, so wicked was the tear in the elf's flesh. But in truth, knowing what had come of them, he knew Legolas's hurt had to have come from the lance of Greywood delivering a spiky blow.

The leg was swollen and bruised, an unsightly mass in purple, red and brown. It had gone untreated and was clearly infected and festering, a smell of decay emanating from it. Gimli grimaced thinking of the ill such injury created. Of course, Legolas was an elf and that made him more resilient. Yet resiliency was not enough to stave off the effects of a wound untreated. After these weeks passing, Gimli was uncertain how Legolas still lived.

Glancing up, he saw that Legolas was gazing at him, smiling between short breaths as if amused, oblivious to his hurt. But his eyes were glassy and Gimli could not help feeling deep concern. He placed a light hand on his friend's hand when he saw he was trembling in his fever. Gimli had not realized how pale Legolas seemed from the distance. Now at his side he could see beyond the dirt. There was a blue, consumptive cast of his friend's lips, and high color in his cheeks.

Legolas blinked then and began to speak between his shallow breaths. But the words were just mutterings and the dwarf could not make them out, wondering if the elf had fallen back into his native tongue. The elf's eyes began to wander again. Gimli leaned forward, his intent earnest. "I know not what you are telling me, my friend. But I can share this of our plans - I am here to get you out," he said.

Legolas's gaze pierced him then as he said in a clear firm voice, "I do not need your help." His glassy eyes seemed to settle into focus in that moment. He said, "I am happy."

Gimli shook his head in disbelief. In his mind these words were of delirious ramblings.

"Hush, you do not mean that," he whispered as he lifted his head one last time to see if there might be any sign of Thranduil's return. He wished he knew what the elf planned to do for Gimli did not think he could retrieve his friend without help.

Greywood looked up then too as if he had heard a distant sound and Gimli quickly ducked below the height of the grass, grateful at that moment for the cloak Haldir had bestowed on him. The magic of the weave made him nearly invisible. The Ent scanned the area with a sweeping gaze before once going about his task.

Gimli sighed then, growing more and more frustrated by the absence of a distraction. He began to think that Legolas's rescue would be on him. But he could not say this to his sick friend. Instead he leaned forward and whispered, "Treebeard is coming. He will take command here. We're here to free you."

Again Legolas was speaking but his words were unintelligible. Gimli could not keep his worry away and he found himself frowning as he warily eyed Greywood once more. He silently wished the Ent away._ Perhaps he would __turn __his back, or fall asleep? _the dwarf thought as that wish did not seem to pass. It was obvious Legolas could not leave on his own two legs and it was also obvious Gimli would have to carry him. Such would not be a sight easily overlooked even if Gimli did wear an elven cloak.

And then Gimli was left to ponder the choices left to him if the Ent did not leave or turn his back or fall asleep. He had a plan, but he truly was unhappy with it. Of course it involved the Ring. Gimli was not sure he could wield It well enough to fight off a raging and charging Ent. He would prefer to avoid confronting Greywood if he could. That left him only with a potentially fatal choice.

He stared across the grass. In all directions but one there were Huorns. This was his route of escape.

From where he hid, it looked as if grass met sky. But he also knew that the drop at the edge of the meadow was actually an illusion; the flat land abutted the ridge just above the cliff where he and Legolas had once fled. And though he knew the ledge on which they stood was no longer there, having cascaded into the river below, he could not say the same was true for the upper cliff that he now looked to. The lake elevation was at least twenty yards above that lower slope. And though he recalled it to be a near vertical slope, he was certain he had spotted a foothold or two on which to stand at his last visit. If it came to it, he and Legolas could flee there, waiting it out until rescue came. It was a risk in that he did not know with certainty that a ledge existed, and he would still have to carry Legolas to that point, but the distance to that sanctuary was better than any the forest could offer. The Ent certainly would not be able to cross.

Still, these were lousy choices, immensely dangerous each.

Venting mildly to his recumbent friend, he muttered his thoughts. "Treebeard would do well to take command now if he is near and able. A little help from the locals might do us some good." Of course, he thought, a distraction from Thranduil would do better. But he told himself he must be patient. So long as he was unseen he would not rush what came next.

Legolas watched him, then began to shift his position. He softly moaned, his brow creasing with the pain he was clearly feeling and Gimli felt his uncertainty deepen. To move Legolas was going to be noisome for in his current state, he did not think the elf could refrain crying out. If only he could make Legolas aware.

Gimli felt for a pulse, wishing he knew enough of the healing arts to understand what that subtle, inconsistent beat might tell him. He could guess, he realized, for the heat of his friend's skin told him serious infection raged. He looked into the elf's eyes. They were half closed, distant. "You look wretched, " he affirmed with a whisper as he thought to himself that the healer was yet with Celeborn and was needed here. He wished they had insisted on bringing him along.

Whispered words were uttered by the elf, only they were more mouthed than spoken, but the elf's eyes traveled up and were fixed on him again. Gimli could only shake his head at the incomprehensible nonsense. He brushed a tendril of hair away. "I know not what you say," he whispered apologetically.

Legolas' head turned away then; his glassy eyes roved the sky. "...grew hops ... learned to brew ale." He smiled and then his head rolled to the side, eyes turning back to the dwarf. "I am happy here," he said once again.

It broke Gimli's heart how disoriented and unaware his friend was. Even before the accident that had separated them, Gimli had begun to see signs of losing his friend to the distraction of the sea. The sea-longing - cuivëar Legolas had called it - from time to time seemed to drive his friend into a daze. At the depth of it Gimli had detected an unfathomable ache lying behind the elf's eyes, and no pretense of merriment could disguise it. That is why Gimli had been so glad to see Legolas enjoying their visit with the Ents. The Entdraught truly seemed to alleviate the elf's ache. But the state he now found the elf in was not curative. He knew Legolas had consumed the draught, but the hazy, languorous world he now drowsed in was worse than that aching distraction. In cuivëar Gimli could draw Legolas back. But this drink seemed to have the elf trapped in an endless dream.

Still, the dwarf must try.

"Legolas, listen to me. Please. I see your eyes are open but I think you believe me unreal. Yet I am here and I come to rescue you. Do you understand? You have been languishing here for weeks now, cared by Greywood who somehow believes he serves you by feeding you his draught. None of what you see in your mind is real. You cannot be happy here because you have no existence here. You slowly die. Do you hear me? You slowly die by remaining as you are."

Legolas said nothing to this, only staring at Gimli with soft eyes that betrayed neither comprehension nor ignorance. Gimli took encouragement in this. He went on. "I do not know if the others come, and I do not deem this a safe place to remain. Sooner or later Greywood is going to remember he dropped you here alone and he will wander back. I do not think he will be pleased to find me here with you. Therefore, I think we must try to flee before he comes. Will you help me?"

Still, there was no response from his friend except that the elf allowed his head to drop further to the side, his eyes tracking to the ground and no longer on the dwarf. Gimli did not like this for an answer. He gently reached his hand out and drew Legolas's chin back up. "I must have your help if we are to escape, Legolas."

Just then Greywood turned and the noise drew Gimli's attention. Distracted by some task only he understood, Greywood did not draw near, but he was still too close for Gimli's comfort. In ten great steps the Ent could be upon the dwarf. Gimli would prefer a greater distance. Yet this was the biggest lead the Ent had thus far made and Gimli knew if he was going to do this, it would have to be soon.

He once again crouched low to his friend. "I do not think we can wait much longer." And though he meant in this that he feared the Ent's coming, in fact in looking at his friend he meant it for him as well. Legolas, holding his eye, winced silently in his pain and then closed his eyes in the momentary calm.

And so Gimli waited as best he could. It probably wasn't a long wait though it seemed of hours. He could feel the sweat crawling down his neck, creeping under his collar and making him itchy and uncomfortable. Meanwhile Greywood grew more active until finally he started to stir, moving away from transplanting a small tree, he began to meander in a direction that put him in closer proximity than before. Gimli began to believe the Ent was nearing the end of his work and that he would be back at Legolas's side in mere minutes.

Coming to his knees, he gathered his feet beneath him. Crouching low, he shook the elf lightly, whispering when Legolas opened his eyes._"_It is time," he said. "You must work with me now. You cannot make noise, my friend, though I will try to be as gently as I can so as not to disturb your wound. Take my hand."

But Legolas only laughed, as if Gimli had made some fine joke. The sound seemed to stir the unfocused Ent. Though he did not turn quickly, he was turning and Gimli could make out the sound of a low _hrooooom _emanating from the core depths of the ancient being.

He thought then that he had no more time to wait. He must go now. "Legolas, help me please...we must leave," he whispered. He nudged the elf, trying to gather him up, but Legolas waved his hand as if brushing the dwarf away.

Keeping his eye fixed on the Ent, watching and praying he would not look this way, Gimli found the elf's body once more had gone limp and heavy, making him nearly impossible to grasp. It was not that Legolas weighed much, but having in his life carried a few comrades out of dangers, Gimli knew his task would be difficult if Legolas alternated between going limp and fighting him. The elf's body was already so unreasonably long. Dragging the elf was not a choice as it would slow him down as well as draw more attention.

Fortunately, the Ent did not complete his turn and stopped where he stood, his back to the dwarf. One last time the dwarf searched for Thranduil,

"Bullocks!" he cursed in a low voice, when he was certain he would get no help. He turned his attention back to the elf. He couldn't do this alone and so he determined that Legolas would aid him. "Do not counter me, Elf! Open your eyes and take my hand! We must hurry!"

Legolas' eyes closed, but he was murmuring and smiling as if carrying one side of a conversation.

"Wake now, Legolas!" Gimli exclaimed in a loud whisper. "I think you dream. We must move!"

"Elves do not dream," Legolas replied drowsily, and Gimli remembered Legolas saying the same before. Treebeard had said this too, as had Thranduil, as had Celeborn. Yet it was clear Legolas was not aware of his surroundings. Whatever they would call it, the elf was no aid in this state.

Waiting no more, he took the elf's hand and pressed his foot into the arch of his foot so as to leverage his weight. It was enough that he could pull the elf into an embrace, pressing his arms around his fair friend's waist. He managed some of the elf's weight, balancing him upon his shoulders. "I have you. I have you," he assured.

But the move was troublesome, creating pain. "Ai...!" Legolas cried out, his face crumbling in anguish. The elf's hand rushed to his leg on the next breath.

And then Greywood turned. He saw.

An expression that Gimli might call anger creased the Ent's face. And then he was coming, charging like a runaway mining cart. Gimli knew he would not be spared.

And at the same moment, his hold on Legolas slipped and the attempt he was making to throw the elf over his shoulder was thwarted. Legolas crumpled to the ground, crying louder than before. There was no time to attempt the lift again. There was barely time even for the dwarf to dodge away though he had no thought of it. He was not going to be parted from Legolas again, at least not by any action of his own. Yet the Ent was about to roll him over, and Gimli found his hand reaching into his pocket for the Ring.

And then suddenly the dwarf was lifted from behind and the sound of a horn was trumpeting in his ears. Neither the pain he had expected nor the power he had expected to wield was there and he realized that in the confusion an Ent, a completely different Ent, had snatched him away from the danger. He had been saved!

But Legolas...!

Horns continued to sound, and the trees around him were in motion. It dawned on Gimli then that Treebeard had arrived. But Gimli did not care, instead twisting about trying to catch sight of his friend

"Where is he? Where is he?" he cried. He could see nothing of Legolas.

**_TBC_**

**A/N: **You cannot know what a busy life I lead. Though I'd like to make writing fanfic a bigger part of my world, it has to be relegated to a lower tier in the list of my activities. That said, I'm sorry it takes me such a long time between chapters. I do the best I can. I should also say that I'm terrible about personal replies to reviews, but if I could use this space here, I'd like to thank everyone who yet follows this story, and most especially I'd like to thank those who have graced me with reviews. They do mean the world to me and your kind words have been like soma (aka, nectar from the gods). Further, there have been quite a few people who have added this story and several of my Ithilien stories to their Favorites Lists. That both stuns and pleases me no end! I had thought no one still read my stories. Saying thank you sounds so trite but I have no other words to express my appreciation. Thank you!


	56. The Water

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

**_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Fifty-Five: The Water_**

And then he saw him. Legolas. Greywood had stopped in his charge, pivoting with incongruous grace to sweep the elf up in his arms. It stunned Gimli to see the elf handled so, for Legolas, limp as a rag doll, was scooped into the Ent's arms. And then he was rearranged with the shift of the mighty hand, and the elf then was cradled once more, like an infant.

But for all the delicacy of his actions, the Huorns about him seemed pressed to fight. They rallied and crowded, bumping and jostling one another. The Ent that held Gimli seemed then to challenge as his massive form rounded on the oakish Ent. Greywood raged, his voice ringing out a trumpeting blast, a monstrous roar like that of a wild beast. Even Legolas, in his somnolent incoherency seemed to hear, curling in on himself while bringing hands to his ears. Greywood curled his fingers tighter about him and Gimli feared his friend would be crushed. But then the dwarf was rocked back and he realized his Ent was about to charge. He braced himself as the two bodies smashed into each other like that of two rams butting heads, fighting for dominance. With the impact, Gimli heard Legolas cry out in pain though he did not see him. The dwarf was thrown back as well, only managing to catch himself from falling by reaching for a jutting branch on his Ent's main trunk. But even as he was lurched, he thought of Legolas.

"Stop! You will hurt him!" he called out as he worked to balance himself.

Greywood pulled back and gazed down upon his charge, seeming to come to the same conclusion. He smoothed out the elf with his other hand, singing out some music of clicks and rattles, and then with only a sidelong look, turned and marched away. To Gimli he appeared as if he was walking over the water.

Gimli craned his body so as to see what was done to his friend, but Legolas was in an impossible position and disappeared from the dwarf's sight. Still, he watched Greywood, hoping to see something of the elf.

Walking across the murky channel, the water churned and boiled beneath the Ent's wake, stirring it unlike anything it had done heretofore. The crusty waters licked around Greywood's feet like waves on an ocean shore. Belatedly Gimli realized no cause for such a disturbance of the water existed; Greywood was the only one to cross. Further, the water seemed to be growing more turbulent and violent the closer the Ent got to the island. It was as if the water was coming to life, forming into an entity previously unknown.

Across the lake, a hundred yards away, the island willows were actively thrashing. They were uprooting themselves and stomping about the island in demonstration of what they might do if challenged. Their massive forms, their thick, draping branches and abundant foliage swallowed up the Ent and Elf, and Gimli could see no more.

It was Gimli's greatest fears come to life. He gazed about, staring wildly at the terrifying sight of battle. Great pounding explosions deafened him as wood struck wood. He feared the lash of swiping branches then as he hunkered lower into the protective grip. He ducked his head when splinters flew and limbs were sheered by the force of the blows. It was tree fighting tree and he could not tell who had the advantage. He saw Huorns lash out, but the Ent that held him seemed done of his fight. It turned to march exodus as others tried to rock him.

"No, wait! What of Legolas?" Gimli cried out. But the horned voices around him drowned him out.

To his surprise. in the middle of the fray, he saw a beacon of light break through the grays and browns of the forest. He thought then that there would have been reds had there been blood. Gimli was glad to be spared that gruesome visage. So it shocked him ever more when Galadriel step forward from the forest eaves and into the light.

Wending her way from the forest to the lake, she seemed oblivious to the battle transpiring about her. Instead her eyes were upon the lake and the wild willows that shook and vented on the small island. Her expression was one of shock. But it was not the battle that seized her attention and Gimli wondered how it could be that she was not trampled under the feet of the tree creatures about her.

Just that thought was enough to spur the dwarf to action.

"Halt!" he cried to the Ent that held him. "Halt! I have already deserted my friend! I will not desert the Lady too!" But when the Ent ignored him he pushed himself out of its grip and began to swing his legs over its branches as if to drop to the ground. The Ent then halted, hesitating as it rocked on feet better accustomed to being rooted in the rich black dirt of the forest floor.

Yet Gimli noted the battle did not halt with him and he had no real intentions of lingering. He leaned down, reaching out to the elf queen. "Here, my Lady! Come! We will take you away from this doom."

But she paid him no heed. Still, no Ent came near her despite Gimli's concern.

She was looking out upon the water, both hands raised to it. She too seemed to realize its strange state. The waves on its surface grew. He saw her lips move in some personal utterance and then her face grew stern, a fierce determination marking her mien.

The lake mass was swelling, swaying, but it seemed to come to greater life in her presence, churning slowly, drawing back. And then, like a snake rising to strike, a swell began to roll, starting at the island. From there it formed the base of a wave, gaining height and power as it advanced to the shore. Gimli could see it was bound for her, rising, foaming, as if the wave had one purpose and that was to crush her.

"My Lady! Here! Now!" Gimli shouted as he began to scramble to her aid.

But suddenly Thranduil was there. Sweeping past both dwarf and his protecting tree, Thranduil reached for her, pulling her to him as if to protect her from the sweeping wave. Yet despite both Gimli and Thranduil's attempts to rescue her, she maintained her stance, flinging out her hands as the water came to crest and break. And to her raised hand, the wave fell back as if it broke against a wall of stone, her action shattering it into a million droplets. A second wave began to form but ere it rose to full height, Treebeard's giant hands reached down and pulled both elves away, holding them each in separate fists.

There was no discussion, no arguing. Treebeard simply took command, and in all honesty, Gimli agreed with his actions. The great treelord did not opt to linger then as he quickly marched away.

Seeing the time for the dwarf had come to flee, Gimli scrambled back into the hand of his protector, giving no more arguments to stay. The Ent pulled the dwarf once more into his fist as he was swept away.

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The river was their meeting place. He could have guessed it, seeing that they had missed their earlier meeting there. And somehow the forest seemed to concur that it be neutral territory for Mithtaur's forces did not pursue them in this location. Still, Thranduil noted that the trees in the area seemed to be slipping away, though he saw none of them take flight outright. It was difficult truly to say if this was a fact for Fangorn's legions seemed to take up the space of any who left and to Thranduil's eye he could discern little difference between them.

Still, he was not pleased for he immediately guessed the reason Mithtaur's Huorns had remained silent when he had attempted to fool them into believing Legolas had taken flight: they sensed that Fangorn and the others had drawn near. Fearing to be caught, they had done nothing. If it had indeed been Legolas the elf might have easily escaped just then. Gut knowing his son's injured state, of course the actions of all had worked to the opposite effect. Legolas was more trapped now than ever. Their ruse had been discovered and Legolas had been secured away under even greater scrutiny.

As Thranduil was freed from Fangorn's grip, he spied Celeborn and immediately launched his wrath upon his cousin. "We could have had him had you not interfered! We were so close! Why did you not await our return?"

"Are you mad?" a bold voice spoke from behind him. Turning he saw Gimli being lowered him to the ground by yet another Ent.

The dwarf seemed angry of his own accord and Thranduil expected his agreement on the matter. But the dwarf launched his wrath upon Thranduil.

"You think it inopportune? Did you not see the danger in which you placed both Legolas and I?" Gimli raged. "I am gladdened that Treebeard came when he did! We could have been killed, so long were we left there for Greywood to take notice of us. Where were you that you can proclaim that mission a near success? I thought you were to create a diversion!"

Surprised, Thranduil balked at the reprimand. "Such was my goal, but _their presence_ interrupted me! Gladly I would have spared you, for my intent was to face the Ents alone so that you could steal my son away!"

"All the more reason for us to come," Celeborn spoke then. "You did not return as expected and we sensed something had come of you. We acted because there was no communication."

"None could be had!" Thranduil fumed. "We were trapped too, as presently is my son!" He scowled, glaring now at Fangorn though his anger was still upon his cousin. "Our mission would have succeeded had I been able to trade places with my son."

"Surely other means could have been had so you did not have to sacrifice yourself," Celeborn argued.

"It was not a well-formed plan," Gimli grumbled.

"You seemed amenable enough to it at the time," Thranduil snapped back, irritated that the dwarf had turned on him.

"You gave me little choice!" Gimli spouted. "Before it could be discussed you were already jaunting off into the forest."

"You know we had little choice," Thranduil answered. But then he swiftly schooled his emotions as he realized the anger came from both himself and the dwarf for reasons that were not clearly. "Gimli, do you wear It again?" he murmured, and he saw a light dawn on the other's expression. The dwarf fumbled at his fingers and Thranduil wondered if the Ring had been playing the dwarf and then him in return. A brief glance of gratitude told him indeed that it had.

"I could not have conceived it..." Galadriel then said, coming into the circle but looking directly at her husband as she spoke. In Thranduil's mind she would do better to keep her distance for, despite his attempt to protect her, he could not help but think her somewhat responsible for the botched rescue. It was not unlike her to barge in where she was least wanted, and he had no doubt she had made the suggestion that they enter the forest in search of Thranduil and Gimli.

But then he saw that apprehension marred her brow and he wondered at what she thought, for in the next breath she whispered to her husband, "There is life there!"

Thranduil's immediate response was capacious for the wealth of emotions it stirred; it was certainly not thought through. He instantly thought she spoke of his son, and his sneering reply did not take into consideration the motivation of her words. In that short instant he had thought her doubting the entirety of their mission. "Had you thought otherwise? Of course there is life! My son is alive! Did you think him dead?"

Celeborn interrupted, his eyes fixed on his wife and her wary expression. "I think it is not Legolas she speaks of." His cool tone settled on Thranduil and immediately the elf regretted the words, for he recognized his tension and fears are what spoke. He might as well still don Passion for his impetuous tongue. His face reddened with shame. He knew her intensions were good.

"Nay, not Legolas," she agreed. She seemed to pull herself taller as she conceded this, looking then into all of their faces as she once more turned to her husband. It was almost a confession she spoke to him. "I should have foreseen this," she said.

"Foreseen what? What is it you speak?" Thranduil then asked. Her cryptic words frightened him and his worries for his son were not abated.

She spoke still to her husband, but it was clear her words were meant for them all. "There is something alive in the water… in the lake. Something... nay, not something - _someone_ lives there!"

"I thought the same! Did I not say it so?" Gimli exclaimed, glancing at Thranduil as if to affirm this fact before turning again to her. "What do you suppose it is? Another Watcher like that dark thing which had guarded the entrance to Moria?"

"Nay, it is not..." She shook her head. "It is a spirit." She turned her eyes away again and it was clear she was frightened by this revelation though her expression did not change.

"Is it a Houseless One - a ghost – you speak of?" Celeborn gasped.

"It is Faeldaer!" the dwarf exclaimed. "Greywood spoke ever and on in his madness about Faeldaer."

"It may be Faeldaer," Galadriel agreed, "Though I suspect it is something more than one Eldar spirit. I cannot say with any certainty; I did not have time to learn. I only sensed its presence because I wore Nenya," Galadriel replied. She turned to Celeborn then and took his hand. "Whatever or whoever it is, this much I _can_ discern: it is evil, truly and horribly!"

"But for what purpose would a Houseless One reside at Mírnen?" Thranduil asked.

"Spirits have their own reasons for settling where they do. We know that Faeldaer met his end here. It could be he chose not to move on to Mandos's care when his body passed," Celeborn replied.

"Or could not pass on," Galadriel suggested.

"Legolas had told me Faeldaer had been accosted by Sauron ere he relinquished the Ring of Adamant to you," Gimli added, gazing up at Galadriel. "I recall there being something in Legolas's relaying of the tale about a bond made between Faeldaer and Annatar?"

"You mean a joining of _faer_? But it was Celebrimbor that Faeldaer loved! In the days of Eregion, Faeldaer and Annatar had been friends, this is true, but he would never have _bonded_ with Annatar. That was not the nature of their relationship. It was clear to all that Faeldaer's heart belonged to Celebrimbor, though same cannot necessarily be said of the other. I think Faeldaer's love was unrequited." Yet Thranduil felt suddenly sick, for he recalled his own attempt, under the influence of the Ring, to force Legolas into bond. It seemed this was a ploy used more than once to take advantage of a weakness in the heart of all elves.

Gimli scratched his beard, squinting his eyes as his memory was stirred. "I can only relay what Legolas saw in his dream, and even now I feel like the tale is long removed from the source. Yet I think it was that Annatar came to Faeldaer in disguise. He made himself to look like Celebrimbor. And it was in that guise that Faeldaer allowed himself to be wed – that is what it might be called, is it not?"

"Aye, that is what it would be called," Galadriel confirmed.

"Faeldaer was misled," Thranduil murmured, but now he was thinking of his own past and how he had been compelled to bond Legolas off. The circumstances were different, but he couldn't help but notice the coincidence in the ruse played. He shivered in recollection of the event, and his own madness at the time. He could excuse himself by saying it was Passion that had driven him to those actions, but he bought little of that reasoning. He could have fought the urge. His relationship with his son had been forever harmed by his weakness.

"This is troubling news," Celeborn said, and Thranduil felt his heart clench even further in pain, his head bowed. "But it does explain why Faeldaer returned to the Forest."

"Does it not?" Thranduil asked. "If he was bonded, do you not think he was commanded to come?"

Galadriel then answered. "I can only say what I concluded, for I was the last to see him, and Faeldaer offered no farewells ere he returned to Fangorn. I believe that he intended to free his people from the caves they had fled to in the assault on the wood."

"It may be his goal altruistic. It may also be the bond was indeed made and he had no choice but to fulfill his compunction. Do we know what came of him then?" Thranduil asked.

"We do not," Galadriel answered.

"So he may yet live in these woods," Thranduil pointed out.

"Nay, as I said, it was a spirit in the water. There are no living souls yet at Mírnen, save Mithtaur's kind and those he raises."

"But how do we know Faeldaer died?" Thranduil asked.

"There can be no doubt that the poison that pervaded the wood then killed him," was the reply Fangorn spoke. It was the first thing he had said in all of their rejoinders.

"You know this?" Thranduil asked, gazing up at the tree lord who now conferred with them.

"I know what Mithtaur told me in those days. That was before he succumbed to madness and the poison himself," the Ent offered. "Though he would not forsake these lands, Mithtaur could not abide long in the woods in those months, not while Sauron's fog hovered here. They were noxious, those fumes, indeed, indeed. But Mithtaur found Faeldaer within the cloud of dark magic, digging at the ledge where the cave entrance had been, trying to free his friends as he had promised. No amount of begging would drag the elf from his task, until at last he broke through the stone barrier that had sealed them off. It was too late though. None emerged from that hole. And eventually one day, weak from breathing the poisons of the cloud, Faeldaer climbed into that dark pit. It saddens me to say that he never came out again."

"Who sealed the hole off then?" Gimli asked.

"Mithtaur did," Treebeard confirmed, then added, "_Hroom. Hroom hoom. _He took a great risk climbing out on that ledge as he did. But by that time he was half mad himself from breathing in those fumes. There was no reasoning with him then just as now. The poisons had leeched into land, air, and water. He was rendered insane."

"Perhaps it is then Faeldaer's spirit as well as those others who lived these lands that you sense in the water," Celeborn suggested to Galadriel. "Could it be that all of the Mírnen _fear_ united?"

"Perhaps," Galadriel conceded weakly. She frowned. "But the water meant to attack me, and I know no reason why Faeldaer or a communal spirit would do that. I have a hard time reconciling its being that of Faeldaer. Though much sorrow fell upon that elf in those days, he was not evil. He was misled, and a lovelorn fool at times, but he wasn't evil, even in the end when I knew him last. Before he parted us, he seemed truly devastated with fear for his people, and the tale Fangorn now tells confirms that."

"This says nothing though of why Greywood would keep Legolas. Are the two things even related?" Gimli asked.

"I must consult my mirror," Galadriel concluded after a long pause. "I think we assume much in simply thinking Mithtaur's madness reason alone for the abduction. The water was not something I had looked at in my pondering and it frightens me the strength of it."

"Do you have suspicions?" Celeborn asked her, touching her arm lightly as she turned.

"I must consult my mirror," Galadriel excused herself. "The power I sense is great. This is not a mere ghost we face."

"But you controlled the water," Thranduil pointed out. "It cannot be so great that you cannot rule it with your Ring."

"Though the Ring of Adamant halted the water's progress that does not mean I have power over it." She nodded to an aide-de-camp who rushed forth with a satchel and a waterskin. She quickly unpacked the silver bowl from the wrappings. Kneeling to the ground, she unstoppered the waterskin.

"That is not water from these bodies, is it?" Thranduil questioned warily.

"Nay," she said. "I bring with me water from the Nimrodel."

"Shouldn't you be using the water from the lake if you want to learn what inhabits it?" Gimli asked.

But she didn't answer and her brow showed her intensity as she stared into the mirror before her. None dared near her.

"It makes no sense to me," Gimli muttered. "In Legolas's dream, the elves of this wood died with Narvi in the caves. How would they come to be spirits of the water?"

"Perhaps that tale will unfold for us. For now we must assess our strengths and use what we can to vanquish this enemy, whatever it or they might be," Celeborn said. He turned and looked squarely at Thranduil. Placing hands on either of his shoulders, the elf lord embraced him before drawing him back and saying, "Your son is kept for purposes we do not yet know. We are here, all of us, to fight for him. And each of us in kind bears a weapon that we may do so. Yet not all those weapons are accounted for. So I say to you now, Cousin, bring forth what weapons you may have to fight this. I think you know of what it is I speak."

Thranduil gasped in surprise. He tried to read his cousin's face, but put in this way it seemed clear that Celeborn knew something of Thranduil's long-held secrets. "I do not -"

"You will not deny that you have been a Ringbearer," Celeborn demanded.

"But how...?" Thranduil began to ask.

"Again, that tale may be told at another time. Our time is short on this day. Tell us of the Ring you hold."

"I -" he again began, fumbling for words, but he looked to Gimli and knew he must unveil what he had kept secreted with the dwarf these past few days. "I no longer keep It. I gave my Passion - the Ring - over to Gimli," he admitted.

All eyes turned to the dwarf. But Gimli did not shrink under their speculation. He pulled the Ring from his pocket and held It out so all could see. Even in the dim light of the wood, the gem sparkled and winked from Its amber depths.

"It is a Dwarf Ring," Celeborn observed, and just in saying this it was clear It was not the first he had seen. "That explains much to me," he continued, contemplating, but he did not say aloud his thoughts. And then quickly seeming to accept what had long been a horrendous past for Thranduil, he nodded and turned then to the dwarf. In what sounded a blithe query he asked, "What have you discovered in Its abilities?"

For a moment the dwarf froze, gulping as if caught in some evil act. But then he slowly smiled, his eyes sparkling as if in appreciation for Celeborn's forthright question. "You are right," he at last said. "We are comrades in this. I have nothing to hide. The Ring will not rule me." And so for the next several minutes Gimli told them all he had learned from his limited time experimenting with the gem.

Celeborn nodded as if acknowledging these gains and then added, "Although It is a minor stone when compared to that of the Rings of Man or of the Elves, the power of It is not to be underestimated. As you have seen, Master Dwarf, rage can inspire It and Its actions in that state can be quite large. That can be of benefit to us, but you need to be wary as well. You might also have learned that Passion tends to rule of Its own accord if not tendered." The elf eyed Thranduil in saying this.

Reddening under his gaze, Thranduil blustered, but it was Gimli who spoke, deflecting his humiliation. "Is It safe though? Do you think It can be wielded for the good? It does have Its own purposes and I must admit that I came to be transfixed when I first gazed upon the water of Mírnen. It seemed the Ring recognized the presence there too and was drawn to the pool."

Celeborn's gaze drew down and he seemed to consider this news. "Yes, I see," he commented, speaking almost to himself alone. "It is in the make of the Ring that this comes. Yes." And he remained like this, his brow pinched, as he thought for the next minute. Thranduil watched him. And though the elf king had long regarded Galadriel as the one amongst them with foresight, he now saw that Celeborn's wisdom was not to be underestimated.

"Do you think," Thranduil hastened to guess, "that the Rings can detect darkness and are drawn to it?"

The Lothlorien lord brought his head up then, nodding. "Aye, I think that correct. They are drawn to the light as well. The struggle in ruling Them is in overcoming the darkness and light within the bearer himself, for the Rings were made in the notes of the Song. They would recognize the discord and notes even where eyes cannot see. That is why you were held in thrall, Gimli. It is more true of this Ring than of Nenya for that Ring was crafted in the Light made singly by the elves. Passion, on the other hand, was forged with Sauron's intrusion."

"This is a danger to us," Gimli replied. "My Ring would be tainted and beguiled by the evil present in the water."

"Knowing such can also put us at advantage, for it has always been the _unsuspecting_ manipulation that makes us susceptible to being fouled. When we know of it we can be at the ready for it," Celeborn answered. "So it was with the Fellowship. As a traveler in the company of the One Ring, were you not on your guard against its games of the mind?"

"Constantly," Gimli succinctly replied.

"So it is here as well. Now that you know darkness is present, you will be watchful of how it might try to control the workings of this Ring," the Lothlorien lord said. Smiling kindly, he added. "I have faith that you can wield the Ring, Master Dwarf. I have seen you fight and know you to be formidable."

"This is not the same as doing battle with my axe," Gimli chided.

"You are still faithful to your cause when you use the axe. Your intentions are not of malice, but protection and justice. Those reasons are purer and truer than anything Sauron might have devised in making this Ring. Those notes sing fair and I think they would overshadow any of the darker chords found in the water."

"I will think them true," Gimli said as he fingered the stone.

But he was halted in donning the Ring as Galadriel returned to them, her search in the mirror done. "Do not put It on just yet, Master Dwarf," she said. "I would have our weapons hidden from the eyes and mind of our enemy a bit longer if we can manage it. It may be we can surprise this foe. I think our purpose here is to do just that. Yet I think there is more telling that needs be done. Come. I would have all look at what I see." She gestured then to the mirror, and Thranduil would not deny his curiosity. He had never been invited to look into the mirror before and he wondered at what he might see in it.

She waved her hand over the bowl as she explained, "I see now where my failing was for I could not give the mirror direction. When I looked into it, giving it Legolas's name, all I saw was a series of possibilities without any real answers as to why he was there." And in saying this, visions came to Thranduil's eyes, all based upon what he knew.

At first it seemed the glass relayed his own history… his youth spent in Eregion … his time with Annatar … his return to the Lasgalen Eryn … the Ring … his love for Laeraniel … and ultimately the harms he had caused to his son and wife. But these were fleeting glimpses, as if the mirror was aware it was telling this to one who already knew. He wondered then if the others saw the same or if their views into the mirror were designed by their own experiences.

The glass slowed significantly when events unknown began to appear. In the mirror then he saw Legolas as he had seen him by the lake, captive and compromised, completely docile in his drugged state. A moment later the mirror shifted and he saw Legolas again being buried alive by the Ent Mithtaur, or so it seemed to Thranduil … But then, contrary to this vision he saw Legolas again, this time his dazzling smile was like that which he had worm in his joyful youth … And again the glass changed. This time he saw Legolas on board a grey ship, his eyes haunted but expectant, and with him was Gimli, much older and clearly ill at ease, holding tightly to a rail. He saw his son compassionately smile down on the dwarf as if to comfort him … Once more the mirror's vision shook and he saw Legolas clearly dead, his body laying at the feet of the Ent from the earlier scene, and beside him was the dwarf draping his cloak over the still form, crying out so that Thranduil could almost hear his wails … Once more he saw his son, heralding the king of Gondor and surrounded by a contingent of elves as if in some kind of procession … The vision altered then and in this he saw elves being killed, an army of elves and orcs united in this and he nearly cried out, for the site of the battle was in the courtyard of his own palace … Another shift and he saw himself being led down a pathway by his son in a forest he did not know. It was green and lush and he rejoiced at this for his son was alive, at least in this view … And in the next image he saw the Gondorian city of Minas Tirith. The plains before it were forested, and it took a moment to realize that the scene was not idyllic for those were Ents at the foot of Mount Minduillin and that they were attacking the city, tearing down the stone walls. Such a site surprised Thranduil, but he had little time to regard it for a moment more took the vision on another path … Legolas was the centerpiece of that vision dressed all in black, and at his back was the ancient tower of Minas Morgul clearly populated. The sight of this scene frightened him for his son's stare was cold and dangerous and it reminded him of evil from days he thought were long past.

"Do not hold your heart to anything you see here, for the mirror looks randomly ahead. The possibilities it might show are endless," Galadriel warned and the mirror stilled.

Thranduil released a sigh as the did too. There seemed to be a collective chuckle as all realized they had been feeling like apprehension. But his wariness returned in the next moment as Galadriel spoke again.

"Yet when I presented another name to the mirror, the visions became clear and did not falter as much. The possibilities as pertains to Legolas's capture sharpen. Our choices narrow."

With another wave of her hand, the mirror returned to relaying incidents. Once more it went through a litany of visions from Thranduil's past, showing more specific incidents, with Annatar this time, and he was reminded of his only recently denied faith in his old friend. Even in his heart now did he wonder if he had been right to forsake the man he had come to know and love, for he seemed nothing like the monster presented in Sauron. Yet he knew the two were one and the same and he could not gainsay that point.

But those thoughts were denied further ground for the glass shifted and focused on Legolas. Thranduil watched carefully to see what transpired from that point … he saw his son and the dwarf arguing from the ruins of what had been Eregion once, and he suspected this had occurred while they had journeyed with the Fellowship … he saw his son in the lead with an army of the dead behind him, and wondered vaguely if those dead might be the ones who haunted his son now … he saw his son spying a lone gull while standing before a great battle, and Thranduil's heart sank as he recognized the beguiled, lost expression on his only child's face. Legolas was hopelessly ensnared in the sea-longing then, and this too he recognized as a truth … and then he saw once more the vision of his son being devoured by the roots of the Ent, his body disappearing into a muddy grave …

All the visions from this point surprised him, for they seemed to be perpetually dark. There was no happiness in whatever name Galadriel had suggested to her glass. But he also saw the fit that the name had created, for many of the images that came were the same that he had seen before, only now they were embellished, clearer to him.

He saw his son dead then, once more the dwarf draped over his lifeless body … and then there was his son, ill and being attended. This was new to him, and he was fretful for there were healers about him and Legolas was clearly lost in pain and delirium. They were trying to still him, and Thranduil stood at his side. He watched as his vision's self pressed his hand to Legolas's heart … when the mirror shifted next he saw his son's slow recovery, tears cried in anguish, and Legolas pushing Thranduil aside as if rejecting him … again the glass moved, and this time he saw Legolas bowed over a sleeping Thranduil, his expression dark. Legolas wrapped his fingers around Thranduil's throat, seizing him and Thranduil watched himself die while Legolas smiled … and then he saw that battle ensuing within his court, elf versus elf. He nearly cried out when he realized the gate was opened and a flood of orcs were made to enter. It was Legolas who opened the gate … in the next vision he saw his son leading the Ents in their march upon Minas Tirith and wondered that his son would destroy the home of his friend … he was shown once more the vision of his son sailing on the grey ship with Gimli at his side, but the image did not hover there. It was almost as if the mirror discredited that as a possible outcome.

Thranduil could watch no more. Looking up, he met Galadriel's eyes. The fear he had seen before was carefully schooled, but he didn't need it to know whose name it was she gave to the mirror.

He had thought this was done. "He lives yet," he said in a whisper that denoted the greatness of his horror.

She nodded.

"Who? Who lives?" Gimli demanded, then asserted, "I know it is not Legolas you speak of this time. Who then?"

She looked at them all as if to survey who among them had guessed the truth. Yet whether they had guessed or not, Thranduil knew the words had to be said. "The name I gave to the mirror is the one who guides Legolas's course now – and ours, for I am sure you all saw that the effect here is not to just him. That name…"

She took a moment to swallow, to draw courage, and to bow her head, gazing at Nenya, which glowed brightly upon her finger. She lifted her gaze once more and spoke.

"The name I gave to the mirror is Sauron. He is the one who lives in the water."

**TBC**


	57. Betrayal and Trust

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Fifty-Six: Betrayal and Trust_

"Sauron? Sauron! That is impossible!"

Galadriel knew the arguments would come, needed no mirror to predict that fact. She glanced at Thranduil then, noticing that he nearly cringed with her pronouncement. His fair face matched the sound of the forest around them, crumbling, distressed. All was reshaping, taking new form, and she knew he must mete out changes too if they were to survive what was to come.

But it was Gimli who had objected, not Thranduil. She gazed at the stout dwarf, noticing how defiantly he stood in his claim, a rational force that could stave off much of what was to come. He would be an aid to them and she did not doubt for a moment that he would carry out what he must.

He was not her concern. It was Thranduil for whom she needed assurances. Yet she addressed them both though she knew all within hearing heeded her words. "I am sorry Master Dwarf, but it is possible. Sauron is here in these woods, in the lake," she proclaimed. She looked at Thranduil then and read his thoughts as she could not back in her own forest. It was clear that Thranduil understood her meaning without her need to explain._ He has suspected as much,_ she thought. Yet she spoke for all their sakes as they all must know what they faced.

"But how?" Gimli questioned, not understanding as she did. "I saw the fall of Barad Dur, the decimation of Orodruin. The Ring was returned to the fires of Its making and we were freed of Its treachery. How can Sauron live if the One Ring is gone?"

She could sympathize with his reluctance, for her heart quailed too. The thought that their long enemy was still about, creating menace and mayhem made her sick at heart. _Sauron._ They had fought so hard. She too had thought she was done with such horrors as that demon Maia might wield. Still, she had need to explain. "The Ring is just one means by which Sauron attached himself to this Middle Earth. The magic Sauron imparted on these lands still lives. A part of Him remains in each of the things He has tainted."

Again she looked at Thranduil, confirming what he knew. His brow, normally unlined, creased in concern, but she saw also saw recognition there. And her mind could now pierce the outer walls of his thoughts and memories. He was different now, but also sadly marred, more so than she had thought. _He knows I speak of him_, she thought. She added, "I have known for a very long time that Sauron will never be fully gone."

The dwarf threw his hands out to his side as he objected. "That is not right! He must die somehow!"

Amused, she turned her gaze fully on him. He blushed then, but did not turn away and she admired the spirit in him. She could see why Legolas had taken him as a companion. Gimli had fire and energy and it was obvious he sparked the young elf's fading fervor. Answering, she said, "He has died… in the form He had taken before. But the impression He left upon this world is not dead and it will not be for a long while yet. Sauron may yet be resurrected."

"Are you saying it was all for naught? That all we've done is forestall another coming?" Gimli pressed. She could see his fury boiling beneath the surface of his confusion.

"Nay, I am not. Do not doubt that the Ring, had Sauron been united with It, would have made Him whole once again. Its destruction was critical to holding Him back and halting the advancement of His evil. But with the Ring gone, what is left of Him remains in those other things He ruined. Those elements are not Him, not wholly. It is mere circumstance and opportunity that make it possible for Him to return now," she explained. And she wondered if this was an adequate reply. Without experiencing Iluvatar's Song and The Music, it was hard to describe the magic that existed in this world. It was like explaining the flavor of honey to one who had never known taste. Sauron's dark powers meandered in the body of Iluvatar's Song. Chords of it rang out from time to time and Nenya gave her the ability to hear them with more clarity than most. But the body of it was overwhelmed by the good around it; the difficulty was in keeping the Song pure. Those dark notes did exist. She shuddered as they rang loudly about her now but she pushed that aside so others might be encouraged to do what they must. She continued, "Sauron is not what He once had been; He is fractured and unformed. The Ring certainly contained the greatest part of Him and would have completed Him."

"What is it we are fighting here then?" Gimli questioned.

What he asked was the same as the task she would have to pass on ere she left Arda. Her time was coming to an end, but the deeds of Middle Earth were not beyond that of her people. Not yet. If they succeeded in destroying their present enemy, they would still have to resolve those other manifestations of Him that lived. And clearly they would need to pursue these tasks with some furor, for wise though she was, she could not have predicted they would face their present doom so quickly after the destruction of the Ring. Sauron seemed capable of returning quickly. "It is the same as what we must continue to fight in the darkness of Minas Morgul, in the hills of Ithilien, the marshes of Dagorlad, on the desert plains of Rhun, the very cells of Moria, the wastelands of Carn Dum, the southern parts of Eryn Lasgalen." She saw Thranduil flinch at this but she pressed on. "Sauron's spirit still resides in those places, just as it does here. Much work needs be done to cleanse the evil away." She saw the elf king was thinking of his surrender of South Mirkwood to Celeborn. _He knows he should carry on the fight. His son wished as much._ But she wouldn't dwell there, taunting him though she could. It did nothing to help their situation.

She continued. "Only here the task is greater. Sauron's spirit seems to have manifested itself into the body of the lake. Elsewhere, given time, the evil might dissipate of its own, in the same way that rock erodes and toxins leech into a forgiving earth. In all, His darkening influence will fade in time. But the water here is contained, and I think that is why He has grown in strength. The water does not dilute or filter into the ground. Even with the Ring gone, his spirit grows. It is like an infection."

"He has power then," Thranduil murmured.

"It is hard to know how much," she affirmed. "But He does. Enough that Nenya was challenged."

She turned then to the soldiers who stood alongside, privy to all that had been said. She addressed them. "I must ask again for your help in defeating Him. He is mighty, but I don't think Him indestructible as yet though He will be if we take flight. It is for the greater good that we take on this cause."

She need not even have asked, for they really had no choice. She need not personally question them, for their hearts were loyal and she felt no loss of faith in any of them. But the rallying cry came back. "We are with you!" The cheers were proclaimed and their answer was given.

"Then go and prepare yourselves as you must. We march in short time, before Anor descends the sky," she announced, and then she nodded to Celeborn and he took command, calling his lieutenant forth and setting them to work to make ready.

"But if all is true as you say…," Thranduil began, forming a question in his mind. They stood now in small company, just Thranduil, Gimli, Fangorn, and herself, though she knew Celeborn would rejoin them when he completed giving his instructions. "If Sauron is alive and trying to rise again, why has He taken Legolas? What purpose has He with my son?" the Mirkwood elf pressed, and his eyes were full and earnest. His fingers flexed and unflexed at his side, and she could feel his raw wariness. She read the misery and sorrow in him, the eagerness to do something… Anything. But she could not be satisfied in that. She was not ready to give him his part yet.

"It might be easier to know if each was to say what you saw in the mirror, for I know the vision was not the same for any one among you," she answered, knowing she had not really given adequate reply. They all needed to piece the larger image together if they were going to see the doom they faced, Thranduil more so than any other.

And Celeborn, having heard this, journeyed to her side, nodding, understanding what she asked. "In my eye I saw an army of orcs, Legolas at their lead," he said. There was no softening of words and Thranduil hissed at the pronouncement. "They were attacking the ancient provinces of Arnor. They then marched to Angmar."

"Angmar?" Gimli asked, clearly surprised that Legolas would venture to the Cold Lands of the Witch King. But it was obvious he did not wish to linger on the details when the broader question must be answered first. He brushed his own query aside, his unease leaking into his words. "I saw him come from the east with a band of Easterlings. I… I… He came… and he destroyed everything. The realm of my people was made gone." He shook his head, as if not believing it. In a whisper he added, "I saw my own death."

And Thranduil too shook his head in denial though his eyes were downcast, and she read the truth in his mind. He was silently accepting his responsibility for what was being said. "He set my people against one another. He took my wood and too he marched then on Minas Tirith." He looked at Fangorn then. "He was with an army of Ents."

The Ent's eyes grew wide, but Galadriel knew what he had seen too and she recognized his surprise was only in that another had seen as he had. His heavy voice vibrated through them, and she almost felt what he said as much as she heard. "In my vision, I saw much of the same. And in the Greenwood specifically, I saw the wood grow darker and a new tower erected there. I also saw my own woodland divided and destroyed in much the same way that Saruman had done. Legolas's love of the woods was lost in my vision," Fangorn added, one more testimonial in this string of harsh prognostications.

And she contributed, completing their circle. "I saw each of us dead. I saw the lands made dark once more with Sauron's evil. And so it was done. However it is that Sauron came to choose Legolas, it is clear his intent is to do as He would had He regained The One Ring. You will note that in each vision, lands that Sauron had cursed were reclaimed. I think it is Sauron's intent to recuperate His strength by retaking those places, resurecting the part of Himself that He left behind."

"Except in the visions it was Legolas we saw doing these things," Celeborn pointed out, but she knew he made this statement so as to drive home her conclusion. She felt it in their bond, and he supported her fully.

"I think Sauron means to claim Legolas's body and make it His own," she confirmed.

"Take a body? But how? But how? You must tell us how this can be done, Lady Galadriel, for I have no knowledge of how such could happen, " Fangorn said in a rumbling voice.

"The water," Gimli said in a choked voice. He looked up at them all. "Legolas is forced to drink it! Is the water now not the essence of Sauron?"

But Thranduil began shaking his head as he hugged his arms into his body. He started to pace. "He would have to drink the whole body of the lake if that were to be, would he not? We've seen the effect of drinking the water. He is not aware. But that was not what any of us saw in the mirror. Drink will not claim him," he argued. "That he is forced to drink is done so simply to addle his mind, as it does Mithtaur. Or at least that is how I see it. But further, if that were the way, Sauron would have claimed Mithtaur's body to carry out His evil long ago, would he not?" He paused, and Galadriel could see the paths his mind took.

"How then will Sauron try to take Legolas's body?" Gimli asked, still not seeing the whole picture.

In a low voice, resonant with regret and penetrating memory Thranduil said, "He will try to bind with my son, in the same way He did with Faeldaer."

"Bind? Do you mean… ? Do you mean they - they will mate?" The dwarf paused, aghast. "But… but how? NO! No! Sauron has no body. If he is water...?"

Celeborn finished the picture, "He has Mithtaur to manipulate in body."

All stilled as the picture of what was said now became flesh in their minds. Galadriel felt sickened by it, but in truth it was no more depraved than any other form of torture Sauron had devised. Sexual deviancy was the means by which Sauron had created orcs. Grim and silent, their faces spoke their horror.

"No. No! He hasn't claimed Legolas yet. I will not allow it!" Gimli interjected firmly, and he looked as if he might punch any who would contradict him. Galadriel could not help but admire his loyal heart then. The dwarf was a fierce friend. "These are merely predictions. None of it is true yet. We can stop it! Let us go! Let us go now."

"We cannot go immediately though my trees would leave in the instant. A mission must be set forth first," Fangorn pressed. "It is one thing to deny in words what is to be done, another to deny in action. A plan must be set. Mithtaur holds Master Legolas and for that I can offer my wisdom. But Master Gimli's haste is understandable. Though Mithtaur, in his right mind, would never do as is foreseen, if Sauron is a puppeteer, manipulating his body, He can act at any time."

"Yet He won't," Thranduil predicted, beginning to pace again. His eyes were distant though his brow was stern. "Sauron will want an audience to witness this. It is the reason He has not acted yet." And Galadriel agreed. But she grew worried again, for Thranduil's insight reminded her how long he had been a pawn to Sauron's manipulations himself.

And though he was agitated, Gimli seemed to accept this. "Let us hasten then. It seems time works against us either way."

"I would see Legolas to a Healer swiftly," Celeborn concurred. "He is clearly quite ill."

"That also may be part of Sauron's scheme," Galadriel considered, but she did not expound on that thought for she could not see it fully developed yet.

Gimli interrupted her thoughts. "Do you really think He meant to choose Legolas?" he asked.

Galadriel regarded the dwarf. This was something she had previously been pondering as well. To think it true was to say Sauron had been plotting this act for far longer than any of them could imagine. The sheer coincidence of events made that nearly impossible, she was sure. She shook her head. "I think Sauron would have taken any elf He was lucky enough to have come along; that Legolas was the one to enter this forest must have delighted Him immensely. I think He has been working for many long years through his manipulation of Thranduil, to bring something such as this about. But I do not think even He could have masterminded this – not to this result." She gazed at the Mirkwood elf in this.

"I could not know that Legolas would make the decision to come to Fangorn Forest," Thranduil bristled, recognizing what she was saying.

"Of course you could not. But it cannot be denied that Sauron is largely responsible for the rift that has developed between you and your son," Celeborn argued. "The dissolution between father and son has long been Sauron's goal."

Thranduil ducked his head, his mouth a thin line and she could read his great guilt and also his growing anger. It was time though to push him on his resolve and so she added, "Sauron would have taken any elf if He could – any _body_ really – but knowing it was the son of Thranduil who came, knowing all that He had done to maneuver the two of you, all He need have mentioned within Legolas's hearing was the name of his father."

"It is true," Gimli confirmed, and though she knew he was not trying to add to the dissension, she saw the elf king's face fall. Eager to aid, Gimli added, "Legolas came with little more provocation than that."

Thranduil halted his steps, and she could see the fury frothing on the edges of his demeanor. _This is it_, she thought. _He either goes the direction of his weaker self, or he marshals himself to overcome the past. _She watched as he stood still, staring out at a memory, his face rigid and locked in regret, but then it seemed he mustered himself. He suddenly stood taller as he drew his shoulders back. She saw his ire and humility coming together, his pride forcing them back, his fierce nobility taking over. This too she had seen in Legolas and it was one of the many reasons Elrond had selected the younger elf for the Quest. And here was the source. Thranduil. She watched as he mentally created a damming wall to lock his anguish behind. And though he was hurt she could see he had more fight in him. He knew all that was being said was true, had fled from it outwardly for years, but something greater was alive in him yet. He would not give up. Though she meant not to manipulate him to this, it was exactly what she needed of him. For healing alone, he must face this.

His gaze came up. She could not help but admire his pride, even in the wake of their united criticism. Thranduil had many flaws, but he also had strengths not all could match. His brow creased as he asked, "But you say Sauron preferred an elf. Why?"

Galadriel recognized he had an idea but she could not read it. She thought for a moment before she answered. "I can only guess, but I would venture in part it is elven immortality that made Legolas attractive to Sauron. If He is to claim a body, I think He would want one that would live forever." But she paused, considering the other line of her reasoning and weighed whether it should be said. She knew Thranduil had committed crimes against his son, had read as much in the mirror and through Legolas himself. When she had learned of it by reading the young elf's mind as he had journeyed with the Fellowship, it had shamed and shocked her. But she also knew Thranduil was not in his right mind when he had done as she saw.

She opted to speak the second line of her thinking for it would lead them to the meat of her plan. "And too, partly I think it is because Sauron recognizes that most elves would be hard-pressed to hurt one of their own." She turned toward Thranduil. The barb was sharp and it was enough. She could feel the anger and shame radiating from him. There was fire in his eyes, but he held it in check.

She addressed Gimli then. "Master Dwarf, I would ask that you present again the Ring you carry, Passion as it is called." Nodding he held It out for all to see, and in her mind she heard Nenya sing to It as if in recogition. _Do you feel your kinship?_ she questioned the Ring of Adamant. Gazing on the golden Ring she asked of Gimli then, "Will you return It now to King Thranduil?"

The dwarf gazed up sharply, his brow furrowed in confusion. "My lady?" he questioned.

But she was focused on Thranduil's reaction. He was clearly surprised by this. Staring fearfully at the Ring, she saw she need not enter his mind. She could read his thoughts through his expression alone. Yet she would not back away from the request. "Thranduil, will you take It?" she asked.

His eyes were wide and he shook his head. "Nay, I will not." He stepped back as if to distance himself from It. He looked up to her then, and though it was not weakness that guided him, he did plead. "Galadriel, do not ask it of me. I have done too much harm with this Ring. It is wrongly placed in my care. I do not have power over It, and I think Its dark make worsens me. I beg that you not ask me to be Its master again for I know I will fail."

She smiled in her heart then, for this was the reply she was hoping he would give. Still, on the surface she remained impassive and cool for Thranduil needed to know that his secrets were not as hidden as he thought. "Did It not compel you to come to Lothlorien so we might help you search for your son?"

He nodded, conceding. "It did, but the Ring did not wish me to stay. It was only the discovery of the dwarf and my greater powers that kept me there, recognizing that Gimli had better knowledge of my son than I did. I think, had he not been found, my Passion would have lead me to these woods of Its own."

"Is that not a good thing?" Celeborn asked, coming to her side.

"Nay, for Its intentions were not good. When I left my wood, I was scornful. Resentful. It was only the feeling in my heart, the deeper sense that Legolas was hurt, our bond, that made me put the Ring aside and take It off. Had I continued to carry It, to use It, I cannot claim my meaning here now would be the same."

"Yet if the Ring could be of aid now…?" Galadriel pressed.

Thranduil's mouth curved into a frown, the corners dipping with conflicting emotions. "Do not ask it of me. Gimli is Its rightful owner now. Let him wield It. He is Its master. He is better than I."

The admission was grand, certainly a big one for an elf such as Thranduil. But she would not back off. He had to say it, speak of his crimes or she knew he would never be completely free of the guilt he carried or be able to take the task she was about to lay before him. "Your son could be saved," she encouraged.

"My son -!" he began, then stopped himself. He seemed to be working up his courage, his mouth twisting as he struggled with his feelings. And then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, he said, "My son has been hurt enough by me! I cannot – I cannot wield It! I have betrayed him more than once and I wish to do so no more. I have betrayed my wife, my son… my father… all because of that Ring!" He was breathing hard, his voice quaking, raising as his emotions mounted. His eyes were brimming with moisture. "All of them… I betrayed them!"

And then she nodded. "Yes. Yes, I know."

It seemed then all breath left him. He stood still, staring at her, eyes wide and clearly shocked by this admission. He gulped on the air, but he did not speak, his face contorted with confusion.

"I know," she repeated, and she felt Celeborn squeeze her hand, encouraging her on, their silent bond speaking to her heart. "The mirror tells me many things. I saw Oropher come upon you in the forges in the days before all armies set off to war against Sauron in the Last Alliance. I saw you melting the armor of your father's army, ordering it made anew."

And then in her thoughts she heard the words ringing through Thranduil's mind, an exclamation from his father, "_Thranduil, what have you done?_"

The choked sob spilled from Thranduil's throat then, his face contorting with his long-repressed anguish. "I did not know we would need it so soon! I did not know the war would come! The Last Alliance… Gil-Galad ordered us to march. But we were not ready! I had had it – I had ordered it destroyed… the armor… because it seemed inferior to me. Annatar had showed me what quality weapons should be. And I didn't know we were to leave then! I was going to have it made new! To make us the superior army! Yet there was not time enough to repair what I had done."

"It was the Ring that persuaded you to do this," Galadriel stated.

"I didn't realize…!"

"It controlled you."

"I did not mean…"

"Sauron manipulated you through It."

His voice was but a whisper. "Yes," he confirmed finally.

The creaks and groans of the forest were the only sounds heard then.

A minute passed, long silence and dread piling up around them. And then Celeborn spoke. "Oropher knew it was the Ring that made you act."

Thranduil gaped at him. "My father-? My father knew it?" he asked.

The elf lord nodded, his voice soft, sympathetic. "It was the reason Oropher struck out in battle at Dagorlad as he did. He recognized Sauron's manipulation of you and he was angered by it."

"He would not speak to me!"

"Not at first, perhaps, but he did," Celeborn confirmed, speaking his personal knowledge, for he and Oropher had been close in those days. "He felt betrayed. But he forgave you, Thranduil. You know this. He died in your arms and he forgave you. In the end it was Sauron he wished to exact his revenge upon and that was why he perished as he did. He sought to prove the woodelves a valiant lot, that they needed no armor. For the sake of you, Oropher went into battle against Sauron."

Galadriel watched as Thranduil's face crushed with this revelation. Teeth tightly clenched, it seemed he tried to refrain from crying out aloud. But in dropping his head, she saw his tears fall.

And Galadriel felt her heart stir with Thranduil's deeply felt regret. His actions were not his own. He had been manipulated through and through. And he knew it. He understood. It was time to say what she must. "You are not done. It is time for you to get retribution for the things done to you, Thranduil. With a Ring, you can do this."

"I do not understand why you think it must be me?" Thranduil asked, looking up to her with red eyes.

She smiled then and took his hand. Nenya glowed brightly, and she felt even more certain what she had in mind was correct. "It is time to set a plan. You will be strong. We can overcome this foe if you do what I must ask of you," she said. And Nenya sang.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Gimli was a pragmatic dwarf. He was typically blunt, straightforward at best, honest always. These were good traits as he ascribed them, but he knew at times a subtler approach was needed. The cleverness of deception was not in his makeup though, and he knew it to be a shortcoming of his. That was why he usually allied himself with those who were wise in the ways of scheming and slyness. Legolas was a good example of such associations. Outwardly his friend appeared serene and aloof, but Gimli knew the elf actually had a quick wit and an even quicker mind. Personal experience had proven to him that being challenged by Legolas was like getting lost in a maze; the dwarf knew there was a path that could be followed out but it was never a straight route.

And that was why he had such difficulty with what they now did. Were it him, he would hack and hew a clear path. _March in, show our might, and then be done with it_, he thought. That was his methodology. Still, Gimli would defer to the others. _Elves_, he noted, _are good at this sort of thing, I suppose. _He could not deny though that he was especially concerned that he was being relegated a seemingly lesser role. He was Legolas's friend, after all. Wouldn't he take a bigger part? But he supposed the deception would be apparent should he take such. It was not that his ego was stung, he just wanted to make sure he could play a part in contributing too. Yet he satisfied himself in knowing that when the time came he would be their dwarf.

Regardless, he was still apprehensive. It wasn't that he didn't understand what they were doing, it was just that he saw too many holes in their scheme. A large part of the plan relied upon predicting what Sauron would do, and that was a slippery force to reckon. They were at guesswork here and he was not comfortable with that. But then, he decided, all battles are guesswork. They had no absolute predictor of what would come.

Yet Galadriel seemed certain, and if Gimli could trust any of his companions to understanding what they faced, it was the Lady. Too, Thranduil had some keen insights though the reason for these were a little more worrisome. Still, he would follow.

He steadied his rattled nerves as he focused on the path ahead of him as they made their climb. He always felt this way before battle and he knew he must distract his mind lest he overthink all. And so he paid heed to their newly made surroundings as they made their climb.

He was astounded to find most of the forest removed, gone from the hills in this region that was Greywood's realm. Daylight shown upon ground that he guessed had not seen sun in ages. The smell of peat turned over by the lumbering feet of the Huorns accosted his nose and was drying out in patches of charcoal greys and brackish greens. Rocks that had been unearthed littered the ground and he noted the yellow granite he and Legolas had earlier picked out mixed among the ores. Those few Huorns that remained groaned as they passed, and those that did not he knew were either fully treed or dead. The landscape was sparse and desolate, craggy and heavily trodden like the road he had followed with Aragorn's army when they had made way to the Morgul Vale.

It was strange to see the forest gone, for many of the trees had previously been landmarks to guide their way. Yet now they did not need a path for it was obvious where the dark trees of Greywood's realm had gone. They could simply find their way by following the sound.

It was this that most worried Gimli. Fangorn Forest had always made troubling noises, or at least it had to Gimli's mind. But Legolas had been good to assure him that this was the chatter of trees gossiping. It was clearly a novelty to have two-legged creatures roaming amongst them and the elf had taken no offense at it. But the noise heard now was not the creaking, cracking groans they had heard before. What was heard now was one long drumming chorus, a moan sung by a unified voice, and it grew in volume as they continued to march. In fact, he was certain it could be heard miles away.

It had begun shortly after they had hatched out their plan, interrupting the crowning points of Galadriel's outlined strategy session. It made him tremble though he couldn't rest his apprehensions entirely on fear. The sound resonated deeply and he could feel it then just as much as he could now at the very core of his body. He wondered if this might be some of what the elves referred to as Song. If so, this 'Song' was not a good one. It had a bad feeling about it.

Following it, they marched and it was only a short time before they came upon the source of this long, droning set of notes. Climbing over a ridge that seemed more like the passes they had followed in Eregion than anything he recognized as Fangorn, they met with the bulk of Greywoods army. The topography was more apparent now, the sheer drop to the river and the high cliff where he and Legolas had tumbled in the mudslide were outwardly visible to them and all could see the exposed scrape of rock where Greywood had fallen with them. But more importantly, in this bleak mountainous landscape and descending drop, was the grey wall of wood, abutting the fall and reaching up to conquer the higher ridges of the mountains. Gimli saw then his ideas of showing might to muscle their way to victory had been completely wrong. He had thought Treebeard led the greater number in his procession, but he saw that now was untrue. Where Treebeard had some thirty Huorns that he commanded in this contingent, Greywood had what was certainly many hundred-fold. They were the wall.

"We're going to need a bigger army," he murmured, but none seemed to acknowledge his comment. Nor did he really wish to turn back and regroup. Of course Treebeard ruled all these forests, but like a king ruling a kingdom, he could still be overwhelmed by a village if the entourage he traveled in was small. So was the case as it presented itself now. Yet haste was necessary in Gimli's mind, and their plan really was not reliant upon might in numbers. They did not really need a larger force.

As they marched higher and nearer, he realized, had he not known it to be there and to be a fixture of these lands, he would never suspect a lake stood on the opposite side of the wall the Huorns erected. They surrounded the lake, standing in close proximity to one another, creating what seemed like the walls to a fortress. In some places their branches intermingled, braiding, twining like hands joined. But he could also see slivered gaps between them revealing the stir of water on the other side. There, he knew, was Legolas. But how to get there he did not know; there was no opening where they could get through to face their enemy.

And then there was that dreadful din of noise. The trees sang. In low, lumbering chords, they sang in one unified voice. They sang the same song together like a chorus, each note synchronizing to the next. The unity of them, the vibration created in their joined voices, made his ears hurt. It was a terrifying sound. A challenge. It both baited and frightened them.

"What do we do now?" Gimli shouted to Celeborn who had been marching just ahead of him along with his warrior elves. Gimli's voice could barely be heard above the chorus.

"We let Fangorn speak to his own," the elf lord answered.

Inside, Gimli groaned, not sure he could long last with that noise. _This is going take a long while, _he predicted.

But Treebeard approached the congregation as an imposing figure, and Gimli was impressed then with the Ent's might. He seemed to grow taller with each step, extending his upper branches and long trunk in a way Gimli did not know a tree could do. And the fury in his eyes was intimidating. But most magnificent and frightening was what came next. He planted himself then, but it seemed that though he was still, he was also poised to strike, as if with the least provocation Fangorn would charge and bowl over any Huorn that might think to challenge him. _Like a cat_, Gimli thought, then corrected himself. _No, a lion. _And then Treebeard arced back and he threw out his arms, bellowing out in the next breath of air a series of notes that brooked no argument as to his dominance. As loud as the chorus of Huorns was, Treebeard overpowered them through the depth of his one voice. The ground shook with the vibration his resonance created and to Gimli it felt as if his voice reached the foundations of the very mountain on which they stood.

Without any other intervention, the music of the trees stopped. The silence rang in Gimli's ears, a counter to the deafening noise. But none dared speak. Gimli eyed his companions and noted the grim and wary expressions on the faces of all. But Galadriel serenely observed, the only one among them who seemed unfazed by the events as they unfolded before them.

And then there was a rumble and a series of creaks, and the Huorns blocking the way to the lake suddenly parted, opening like a pair of doors rolling forward and out. They created a wide corridor then, and Gimli realized they opened out onto the grassy land he and Legolas had conferred upon just a few hours before. He saw clearly the trodden weeds, and beyond, the lake and its island on the far side.

Gimli could see the water rocking and buffeting against the shore then, churning as it had not done at any time to his witnessing before. It was a sure hundred feet away, but the water was a daunting force all the same, especially now as all recognized it was not merely a lake but a living force. He paused to watch as the waves lifted into frothy peaks, great turbulent swells, and for that a sudden apprehension greeted them. A sense of dread hung over the lake like the pall of a shadowy sky.

Galadriel was first to break the spell. "It is time to do as we must," she said, stirring them by taking a step forward toward this new entrance. But just as she did, the water rose into a wall. Though it was a hundred feet away, it was still imposing. But this time it did not crash; it merely stood on end, pausing, waiting. When she took a backward step, it receded back to the flattening swale. It was clear the message was that she should not advance; she would not be allowed entrance.

They passed glances to one another, and Gimli heard the murmuring confusion and fears drawn by the soldiers. But Gimli's eyes were drawn by a movement on the counter side to the water. On the island, on the other side of the lake, a treed figure began to move forth. Squinting his eyes, he saw Legolas was there, draped over the arms of one of the willows. Had Gimli thought his friend would be hidden away, held as a captive in some remote locale, he was clearly proven wrong then.

"Legolas," he heard Thranduil say, and eagerly he saw the elf take a step forward then, ignoring the swell that had previously barred the island to them. But the water did not rise, nor did it churn when Gimli followed him. The trees stirred none and Gimli could feel their eyes upon them but it seemed the way was clear for them. Yet when Galadriel tested it again, taking one step, the water bubbled and warned. The impasse was set.

Gimli did not care for the idea of going on without her. He neared her, looking into her eyes. He felt torn by the desire to see his friend and also to keep to what they had decided. Galadriel was to be a part of this plan but they also knew this might occur.

He found courage in that she seemed unaffected by the alteration of plans and simply offered her encouragement. "It is by wit and will that we will win this fight. It is as it must be," she said. He nodded as he passed her by then, steeling himself once more.

The water remained in its settled state as they passed through the lined doorway and made their way to the shore. Thranduil led, and he was followed by Celeborn, Fangorn, and Gimli. But when the soldiers and the Huorns in Fangorn's contingent began forward, the water lifted treacherously. And as if that were a cue, the surrounding Huorns closed in.

Gimli groped with the sudden claustrophobia of the pressing walls. He heard Fangorn's Huorns call out in protest before the mass of them were lost to the confusion.

"Why is this?" Celeborn shouted in argument, and Gimli could hear the roar of the Huorns, the soldiers, muffled voices. But the wall closed them off. The trees from his visible landscape shivered and rattled, but he knew the shoving and pressing came not from them but the opposite side of that fence.

"Let them enter!" Treebeard demanded. But Gimli saw him now as a hostage like the rest of them. They were horribly outnumbered and fighting Greywood's Huorns would be deadly for them all. Still, Treebeard roared, "Let them come!"

"I say not."

That statement was simple and succinct, but it came from none of them. It was spoken in tree voice, deep and bellowing, and it resonated from farther out from the shore. All turned about to locate its source. That was when Greywood appeared on the island, his presence like a magnet. Suddenly all eyes were directed to him as he stepped alongside the hovering willow that held Legolas. The Ent looked down on the elf.

Now that he was on the other side of the wall, Gimli could see his friend better. As before, Legolas remained limp and unaware, eyes closed as if in sleep. His head fell back over the cradling limb of the willow, hair spilling down in a flowing cascade. But fever marked his furrowed brow, and clearly weak, his chest rose and fell in a ragged pattern of inhales and exhales. He stirred, moaning as the willow carried him forward to the water's edge. That sound made his stomach twist, and it vanquished all other thoughts in Gimli's mind. Legolas was made to suffer and he would not allow that! He grew infuriated.

The dwarf looked to Thranduil then, seeing the anguish that lined his brow. It was then that Thranduil stole a look at him, as if needing the dwarf's encouragement. A slight dip of the chin was all he dared spare, but it was enough that the elf got his meaning. He willed courage to the elf king. They were relying upon him.

In all that they had discussed and planned, Gimli could honestly say he did not know what to expect next. But strangely he was not surprised when the water began to stir. It slowly rolled, and then it seemed to rise, rounding and mounding into a form, growing and swelling before their very eyes. But it did not form a wall as before. It was morphing into a new shape. The water mass continued to climb, and within moments it had gained the height of a man. From there it began to form again into a shape and Gimli discerned it was that of a mannish figure. It did not have distinct features, not yet, but he could see that particles in the water were shifting and resorting. Golden detritus flitted in the area that might have been hair and eyes. Eerily, the watery figure began to take form.

And then it looked at him.

He knew it could not see, for it had no real eyes, but the way it turned its head, the way what might have been a mouth curled its lips and smiled at him - at them - the way it heaved a sigh of breath, he felt sure it could see him.

And more, he could not shy away from that gaze. He felt locked to where he stood, his eyes fixed on the rising figure, as if this water creature had power over him.

But then Greywood moved, cocking his head in the same way, lifting his hands and grinning madly in like manner, and the spell was broken. Gimli then understood it was through the Ent's eyes that this water creature could see.

Greywood found voice then. "Greetings, Thranduil! I have been expecting you."

Gimli started. Though they had prepared themselves for what they could anticipate, being called out by name was clearly not something he had expected.

Thranduil advanced, coming to the water's edge. The water drew back then, revealing the hidden walkway that had been hidden just below its surface. The bridge was now revealed. But knowing the water's strange temperament, Gimli grew fearful as to whether they could trust it as a means of crossing.

"You will advance," the Ent said, and Thranduil nodded, as if he had been waiting for permission. He took his first steps toward the watery path and the water remained level at his feet. But as soon as the others began to descend the shoreline, Greywood howled in anger. "No others!" he shouted.

All jumped back though Thranduil remained still. "You would have me alone?" he inquired, but he seemed strangely calm in asking this question, and Gimli was immediately reminded of Galadriel.

"You have always been my most obedient servant. Ah, but I know you, Elf King," the Ent said, calming, while the water creature simultaneously mouthed the words. "I know you so well that as soon as I had learned of Legolas's arrival in these woods I called to you because I thought you could participate as well. You do not disappoint me, my friend." And so saying, the figure began to shift, slimming and gaining height, the colorful plantforms in the water creating the tawny shades of flesh, hair and eyes. He rose to new height, now double that of a man.

Thranduil began his walk slowly forward, and Gimli watched his back as he moved away. There was something odd in the way the elf did this, as if he was pulled by a string. The dwarf felt apprehension move into his gut. He did not like this. There was something both unsettling and mesmerizing about the water, and he came to suspect that Sauron was trying to ensorcell them, the same as Saruman had attempted with his voice, even when he was rendered otherwise powerless. He fretted then that perhaps they had misplaced their faith. He wished it was Galadriel that was to negotiate their cause, for she was a master of the Ring Nenya and would not tolerate this petty enchantment. Gimli worried then that Thranduil might not be completely reliable to do as he had been tasked, regardless of his stated pledge to see Legolas freed. Gimli wished then that Thranduil would turn and glance back once more. It would assure him to look into those eyes and see the elf he had begun to feel trust for. Distanced like this, he felt the vulnerability opened by this possibility growing. Thranduil was alone, seemingly unarmed. Gimli felt his anxiety rising as he was reminded once more that he was not good with these twisting schemes and manipulations. He had to have faith. They were all relying on Thranduil now.

The watery figure and the Ent continued. "Legolas here held hope that none would search for him." On the far shore, Legolas's twisted in his slumber and Gimli imagined he moaned again. But the willowy Huorns crooned to him and he settled. It was unnerving and Gimli felt his stomach knot in apprehension as Greywood went on, knowing what Sauron planned. "But I knew your love, Thranduil. I knew you would not forsake him. You have done well."

As if planned, Thranduil stopped then, having reached half the distance between shore and island. The water creature dipped and flowed to his left then while Greywood stood before him on the island shore some numerous yards yet away. "It is time now, Thranduil. Do you have what was given you? Do you have the Ring?" The elf then nodded, holding out his palm. Physically trembling in fear, Gimli imagined he showed the jewel there in the cup of his hand. In his heart he felt the resonance of the Dwarf Ring calling him even though It was now denied him.

"What does he do?" Gimli asked, pulling at Celeborn's sleeve. But grimfaced, the elf did not answer him, only moving his hand to rest it on the dwarf's shoulder.

Eyes glued to the scene before him, Gimli could feel the compelling force of the next

words, resonating in a sanguine tone. "You will put It on now." Gimli felt his heard suddenly thunder in his chest. He quaked then, fearful, for the words were motivating, mesmerizing. Still, he felt Celeborn's fingers dig into his shoulder as if to keep him present. It worked and he knew he had no choice other than to watch as the scene played out. Unnerved, he had fears. He must trust as Thranduil directed them. Yet this was all unforeseen.

"You will put It on."

And then his fears came to a pinnacle point as Thranduil lifted his head, his hand, and in obeisance he reached into his palm for the gem. Slowly he raised his hand and put the Ring Gimli now knew onto his long finger. And that was when Gimli felt everything change.

**TBC**

Authors Note: At last.

Thank you to the many people who have tagged this story with Faves and Alerts. I'm delighted to know I haven't been deserted, despite the long spells between chapters. I know my absence makes it hard to develop a following, but my life and free time are more complex now than they were when I began this fic. Regardless, I will continue to plug away so long as there are readers who still want me to. Until then, happy holidays!


	58. A Wanton Sight

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Fifty-Six: A Wanton Sight_

If Treebeard closed his eyes, he could almost see Greywood as he had appeared in his sapling days, a stringy youth with eyes too large, limbs too long, and an earnestness that came with heartfelt admiration. Treebeard had thought then that he had such potential, his eagerness guided only by his drive to do good. He had been a timid Ent, even before the scarring event, but as a nurturer he was selfless and true of heart and his shy reclusiveness did not matter. There were those who had thought after the lightning strike that he might turn to Tree but Treebeard had countered them. It was true, the incident left the young oak disfigured and emotionally wary for many a long year, but he had recovered. Not wholly, of course. What being could suffer such a brutal assault by nature as Greywood had and not have some kind of lasting injury? But still, Greywood had not relinquished to complacency as some might have thought.

His stammer was one of those lingering traits. The Ent was marred by the mental anguish of feeling the outcast, an emotional response driven by the fact that a large portion of his trunk had suffered burns in that storm. And though there were many who were fearful of speaking to Greywood, it was not his appearance that drove them away but their own anxieties: there was not a Tree, Huorn or Ent who did not fear what Greywood had suffered foremost in their imagining. To burn… even now Treebeard shuddered. That Greywood had suffered and survived that very fate created an awkward aloofness in the others. And Treebeard understood why. What does one say to an Ent who suffered so… 'I am pleased you did not burn down to coals,' thus implying that he was nearly that already? And his charred appearance gave the impression that he was too, for a very long time.

Yet Treebeard had predicted Greywood would outlive his ordeal, and he had, for the scars were barely visible anymore. What the Ent Lord had not considered was the change that event would create on the younger Ent's psyche. That's where Greywood was still most affected. After the lightning event, the great oak had withdrawn even further, choosing personal exile in the northernmost parts of the forest over the attention, both hovering and distancing, he would have received in the nearer regions of the wood.

He had not pursued a Wife. He had not longed for companionship. Instead he had marched north and focused his skills on what he always did best: raising young saplings and nursing those like him. He was almost like some of the nomadic Ents that seemed to drift away once or twice in an age, deciding like the Entwives, that they were needed more elsewhere. Had he not his realm and those young trees to oversee, Treebeard would have thought he would depart too. But he had not. So when the elves came seeking secreted refuge in Fangorn Forest, Treebeard had thought first and only of Greywood for the mission. So distanced from any others, it seemed perfect, for the old oak certainly was going to tell no one they were there, yet he would be a good host. He would think them young. He would nurture them like he did his sapling trees. The elves would find peace and comfort in Greywood's realm. Or so they had thought.

Treebeard blamed himself for not knowing what went on in the outer world, for if he had he could have been a better overlord to Greywood and could have perhaps saved his friend the blow he would next suffer. But he had not looked, he had not wanted to see the world. Few trees did. It was not until Mírnen was attacked by Sauron's forces that he even bothered turning an eye out to notice the changes happening in the outside world. And once he did see, he deemed it too cruel and chose to cleave even tighter to his own kind. But that was his nature; that was the nature of all Ents: the world comes soon enough – best to be content in the small pleasures than to fear the bigger complexities. It was only when Treebeard saw his own wood being destroyed by his passive stance that he realized he could not remain idle. He should have learned that when the same lesson had been taught through Greywood.

It was after Sauron's attack and after Mírnen had been leveled with all elves destroyed that Treebeard had feared for Greywood's demise. He had been an Ent possessed, his large eyes filled with tears as he returned again and again to his wood, seeking to retrieve and rescue any who yet lived. No elf did and few trees lived through the poisoning of the wood. Treebeard had thought then that Greywood sought his own end; he could not coax the Ent away. Yet Greywood lived up to his oaken roots - he survived. But madness was the result. Now Treebeard wondered if it really was.

Again he blamed himself. He could have intervened, could have refused to let Greywood return to that disaster-ridden mountainous range. But he had not. He had felt sorry for his friend and thought it would be wrong to force him into something that was not of his nature. Yavanna herself had selected each of them to their roles, decided who was to be a Tree, a Huorn, an Ent. Like all, she had a plan for Greywood. Who was he to intercede? Only now had he learned that Greywood's madness for all these long centuries might need not have been. Only now did he question his own methods of rule. Sauron's poison yet worked on Greywood. Had he been drawn away, the Ent might have been a different being. He might have been sane.

And that was why he was here, doing what he might to yet save his friend and to remedy the damage his poor leadership had leant.

So as he opened his eyes and saw now Greywood standing before them, giving them orders, yowling with rage, professing his intentions, Threebeard knew he could not be angry. He knew what was to come, what Greywood's possessor would want from him, from them, how He would speak using Greywood's mouth, limbs, body. But Treebeard would not blame Greywood. Like so many others, the Ent was just a pawn and his intentions alone had never been malicious. Treebeard would not impugn him.

He surveyed their situation and realized that same thought held true of the Huorns now surrounding them. They were singing that menacing song, lightly, softly, as if it were a lullaby, but Treebeard had yet to discern its content. It was a tale and it was long and slow, repeating again and again. But he could not stop to contemplate the intricacy of the words. The world around them was moving fast and he must pay attention. He did not put blame to them though. They were only doing what they must, for their nature was to be loyal to their master, and Greywood was their master. Yet Treebeard thought he might have sway. He was the Forest Lord after all, and though he did not speak in the subtle tongue of these northern folk, the root of their language was still at his command. The Huorns had already complied when he demanded they let them enter. Had they not, they would still be standing outward, looking at the bodies making up these walls, wondering how to crack open the nut. The Huorns had displayed to him then that their communication with Sauron was not as innate as it was with Greywood. The song, he sensed was one practiced over time, but their actions were not. The old oak commanded them, but if Sauron was to direct them, He would have to order them through Greywood's words. This was a weakness.

He regarded the water creature then. So this was Sauron in his present state. He wondered if the ancient lord realized His vulnerability. He was merely a body of water at the moment. Granted, He was large and menacing, but not so great as a sea, and beyond His immensity, His strength was limited. He was not returned yet. They had a chance still.

But gazing at the tower of water, the Ent was not sure how he should feel. There was something beautiful about Sauron's figurative form, and Treebeard could see the allure. But peaceable creature that he was, Treebeard did not understand why the ancient one sought a means to be more. All the Ent could ever imagine wanting was warm days and calm so that he and all kinds could live in harmony. His was the counter to Sauron's goals.

Whatever his motivation though, he felt certain Sauron felt He had the upper hand, and Treebeard maintained his guard to be wary of that. None of them could afford to be complacent. They were in danger and this was a turning point for all the events that would come.

As if in playing to the culmination, there was also a shift in the Music here that jangled at the Ent's nerves. Whether it resonated from the water or the forest itself, he could not tell, but he knew he would not feel right until the sound ceased. What he could tell though, what he could feel, was that this menace of puppetry the water creature held seemed to be limited to Greywood and the few Huorns who resided on the island. Treebeard had to guess that was because of the fonts they drank from. It was not usual for an Ent to share his Draught with any except his guests. The island Huorns would drink from their own make, as would the Trees, but Treebeard could sense the underlying cohesion between them and suspected the Huorns partook just as Greywood did. He watched as they drew one of their cups and applied it to the lips of the young elf they held hostage. He thought then this was how they did it. In gathering Sauron's drink for the elf, they sipped too. Hence the reason they seemed to communicate at a base level. Sauron's essence pulsed in their veins too. He would have to watch these Huorns too.

He surveyed then his small friends, worrying for them just as he worried for the young elf held by the Huorns on that far island. All of them were vulnerable. None of them had a crusty hide like an Ent, and when he looked at them he saw bones that could easily break and sculls that could easily be smashed. Given the distance of the young elf, he was not sure he could protect him or achieve their ultimate goal to get him away. But these others he would keep near if he could. With Thranduil walking over the watery bridge though, he wasn't so sure even this he could do. Yet that was the plan and he had to trust to it, even if it left them vulnerable at times.

"Put on the Ring, Thranduil," the elf was commanded, and Treebeard watched it happen. He was certain Sauron thought Himself clever in this. He dosed Greywood, the island Huorns, even Legolas with His potion so as to make them compliant, but with Thranduil He could have him don a Ring and the effect was much the same, even better perhaps. It was all about controlling others, the Ent deemed. Yet none of them were truly at His complete behest. They were all ruled by bits of will and he wondered, if Sauron were to succeed, would He face the same when housed in the body of the young elf? Would Legolas fight him?

He looked again at the watery form and its limits and understood why Sauron would want to be unhoused from that body. But when He would claim the young elf and be a host in that body, He would be just as vulnerable. True, He would be more mobile, but was He not just substituting movement for physical weakness? An elf was no match to the power of the water.

And then it dawned on him. The Rings. That was why Sauron had crafted the Rings. With their power He was more than a mere body. He was the power of the elements.

Suddenly panicked, the whole of Sauron's intent drew into his mind and he saw even more how vulnerable Thranduil was in this. The elf had thought to comply, to gain a foothold so he could be near his son, but he was only making himself a target for Sauron's total control.

He knew it would create havoc, but the elf did not realize what Treebeard did, and so the Ent dashed ahead, stepping over the water regardless of the water creature's order that it be Thranduil alone who neared the island. The Ent charged forward, and before anyone could react to counter him, he grabbed the Mirkwood elf and pulled him back.

Greywood howled and the water creature spun about, but Treebeard moved fast and before any could act, Thranduil was dragged back to their small collective as the water rose up on a swale. It broke as the elf fought him and Treebeard found he could not release him for fear of his flight.

"No! I must go to my son!" Thranduil cried.

"It is a trap," Treebeard countered and he looked with beseeching eyes upon Celeborn so he might work to sooth his kin. Treebeard interfered no further there. His focus must be on his own kind.

"Greywood!" he shouted, speaking in the Common Tongue for it was the most expedient method of communicating though it was certainly not the most graceful. "We come to take back what is ours! We are not here to confer with this watery demon you house. He is an interloper and unwelcome. We ask instead for the release of the elf you keep there."

"I speak for myself," the water creature mouthed though the words poured from Greywood's lips. There was no stammer and Treebeard recognized his friend's spirit was buried deeply under the thrall of this monster. "I am Sauron! I rule here! And you will treat with me if you wish to live even minutes longer! Release Thranduil! I have need of him!" The water rolled up before them threateningly.

"We will do no such thing when you threaten our lives!" Treebeard replied.

"You blighted weed! You termite-riddled tinder!" Sauron sneered. "I need not your willingness to make it so!"

"What purpose have you for Thranduil?" Gimli spoke out.

"Puny insects! Be glad I even deign speak to you! I will have what was mine," Sauron dismissed.

"Thranduil is not yours!" the dwarf countered.

The water demon narrowed His eyes and focused on the dwarf. He scowled but then swept His hand as if conceding the point a useless one to argue. But rather than opting to speak more, He turned his back on them and sank into the pool. The water began to rise. Like a serpent, it undulated, careened. It rocked gently, swaying. And as it rolled forward it did not even form into a frothy wave, it merely rose higher and higher as if to sweep them all up in its towering form.

Yet as it drew to the shore, the water suddenly broke, flying back and erupting into the air, as if an invisible wall stood before it.

Greywood howled in rage. "Galadriel thinks to challenge me? Even from afar? She was not invited! She cannot play here!" Sauron snarled using Greywood's voice in saying. Greywood then tilted his head, stopping where he stood, as if listening to a voice none else could hear. He then nodded and raised his head to croon a grinding groan. Here again, Treebeard knew he spoke to his own in their native dialect and though he didn't know exactly what was said, he was beginning to discern the cadence and nuance of the tongue. He watched the shift in the Huorns that created the deeper wall and saw them slip backwards and away. New gaps were left in their place and the sound of onslaught at the outer wall was heard, wood battering against wood. He closed his eyes. He did not want to think of what would be lost today for surely the outcome of this event would be grim. Yet he steeled himself and hoped that Sweettree was doing as he had been commanded in his absence.

"Perhaps if she is forced away from these barriers she will cease her menace," Sauron suggested, and Treebeard understood what was going on without. Battle was waged there and Galadriel and the others were being challenged. He gazed at Celeborn but the elf did not seem distraught and Treebeard perceived that through the elf's connection with his wife he knew that Galadriel remained well. Assured, the Ent gave heed once more to what happened within these walls.

The water creature narrowed his gaze upon Celeborn then and swept from his place nearest the island to the shore where the elf was held in Treebeard's protective fold. He loomed above them, towering over Treebeard. "I had thought to exact my revenge by delivering your dead body to her."

The elf lord stared daggers, his nostrils flaring in disdain. "She was never yours to have," Celeborn said coldly. "Your power to charm her is, as always, weak."

"I may win her still. I have never adhered to that myth that an elf loves but once, for if it was true I never might have managed the corruption of so many into orcs. Thus I have hope. She was intrigued by me once; she may be again," Sauron goaded. "She dared even _want_ me. But you knew this, Celeborn. You were threatened by my nearness, hence your reason for denying my presence. What gave it away for you? Did she call my name out at night?"

"You speak lies!" Gimli cried out, and Treebeard turned then, admiring the Dwarf's fearlessness as he gazed down upon him. "I will not stand to hear you slander her when she is not here to defend herself."

The water creature sneered at the group, directing His attention first to Gimli. "How pitiful you are, Naugrim! Are you so deprived of beauty that all she need do is favor you with a smile and you are forever hers to command? But such is the plight of those most grim to look upon, as if the jewel they hold in their hand makes up for the ugliness of their entire being. They keen at the shiny bauble. But Galadriel always did have sway over others of lowly descent. You are in good company, Dwarf. Ask Thranduil. He was ensnared the same. And those stunted and mole-ish people of the mountains were especially favored by her."

Sauron's venom was then directed again to Celeborn. "Are there no words of defense from you though, Celeborn? Bear you the grudge still?" And then He laughed. Pressing the matter, the watery form shifted and split. A second figure appeared, a woman. She wove herself around Sauron's form and he drew her down, rubbing his hands over what was now her naked form, breasts, waist, hips. They were making love, her legs coiled about his waist, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her long hair tangling into the surf. Sauron leered at them. "What was it then? In the throes of passion, did she push you away wishing instead it was me?" The rocking motion caused water to splash upon them.

Gimli roared. "You will cease now!"

But Celeborn turned his back on Sauron, placing a stilling hand on the dwarf's shoulder. Treebeard could yet see their small friend bristle in rage.

And still Sauron taunted, pounding into the phantom figure, rocking harder as the woman's figure writhed in joyous culmination. "Are others to always serve your wife's champion and never you? An undersized earth-digger and a cowardly elf king do more in her honor than you ever have. No wonder she gives out favors like a cookhouse wench. I am sure she must be sorely disappointed by you."

"And yet she spurned _you_," Celeborn retorted without looking.

"Your insecurities kept her from me," Sauron snarled.

Celeborn seemed to ignore him, instead attempting to hush Thranduil, who seemed to be growing more agitated by the second, "Nay, Cousin… Peace!"

"I must -!" the elf cried. "I am compelled…!"

The woman's figure faded away. The water creature rose up and regarded them all. He sneered as the words of Greywood called out to them from the far island. "Galadriel sold Thranduil to me long ago. She offered him up like a whoremaster peddling one of his slaves! Why so protective of your kin now?"

"You rejected that offer then, and it has long been withdrawn. I protect what is mine now!" the elf lord returned, finally turning.

The water creature drew lower, sweeping so close that dappled light rained over them like shadow. Treebeard could not help but look into that face. A fine mist drizzled on his skin as the compelling voice spoke. He could feel its vaporous form lightly misting over his body. And although the figure of Sauron was somehow beautiful, when analyzing what comprised His form, Treebeard found himself repelled. The water had an oily slickness to it and its scent was putrid, like that of rot and mold. Close as it was, as it spoke, he could see the detritus and rotten leaf forms floating in the water beneath Sauron's 'skin'. The Ent could hear the amusement in the other's rebut. "That it should be so simple."

And then He washed aside and the island was once more visible to them. "I have what I need now in this one. I need not bargain." In emphasis, one of the island willows lifted Legolas so they might see him. The young elf's brow furrowed in pain though he did not cry out.

"What have you done to him?" Gimli asked and for the first time Treebeard thought he heard fear in the dwarf's voice.

Dismissively, the water creature scoffed. "He is here as you can see. Is his pliancy not endearing? A wanton sight he is. I have enjoyed toying with him. He was very resistant at first and I had to hobble him, but now all he needs is a gentle reminder from time to time of my dominance." In unison, the Huorn song grew louder and Treebeard could start to pick out part of the words.

…_The forest had walls the elf could not see. He tried to leave but always he was blocked, beaten back…_

Nothing more than that happened but Legolas cried out in pain, his face contorting as if wounded.

The sound of Legolas's misery sparked Treebeard's ire. "What have you done to him?" he asked.

"Legolas! Legolas, wake!" Gimli urged.

"Cry if you like but he will not answer you. He is controlled by my whims. I can make him do anything I like. Would you like to know what stirs in his mind?" Sauron's form changed to that of Faeldaer and he moved to the island's shoreline as the Huorn brought Legolas forward. The song yet was sung. The willow held out its arms as if offering him up to the watery figure.

…_The elves made him well with their healing touches. They gave him a home. They shared their world…_

The elf moaned, his brow creasing and his head rolling back.

"Stop that! You are hurting him!" Gimli cried. "He does not want this!'

"Oh, but you see, I can make that vanish in the breath of a song," Sauron and Mithtaur said.

…_Slowly he came to accept them. Slowly he came to be one of them…_

The Huorns returned to their previous quietude and Legolas settled, slumping in the willow's arms, his face easing into a heavy state of slumber once more. And though Treebeard was certain he was the only one among them who could discern the greatest part of what was said, gazing down on Thranduil and Celeborn, he saw they too plucked meaning from the rhythm of the music.

"Release him!" Celeborn demanded.

"I have what I want already. I have him. I can use him. That you are here means I now have more tools to play with," the water creature said, again seeming to look about at all the faces present.

Another willow moved, drawing one of the gourds they had previously seen from one of its branches. The elf was lowered to the ground as the second willow pressed the open lip of the gourd to Legolas's mouth. The young elf did nothing as the drink was poured down him once more. "I have power in keeping him. I ply him with drink because it helps me mold his dreams. Dwarf, have you told Thranduil yet of the moot and the dreams I delivered to Legolas there?" Mithtaur and Sauron asked, turning eyes upon Gimli. Immediately surmising the answer, He went on, turning His strange eyes on Thranduil then. "He dreams, Thranduil, but Legolas does not control the outcome of his sleep as an elf normally would ... I do. I've been making him dream ever since I took him."

A wave whipped across Him and Treebeard watched as Sauron lashed out at it. His smile immediately slipped away. And with that His form rose, growing as He spoke, gaining height and girth as the bodily manifestation of the angelic faced being grew into a monstrous being that towered above them. "All I need do is resume physical form so I might reclaim what I formerly owned. That is why I take Legolas."

And then suddenly He was a swirling form, threatening in His immensity, and they found themselves gasping as all the water of the lake seemed to gather up in one tremendous wave. They silently stepped back, fear causing them to loosen their grip on one another. Treebeard felt certain that they were about to be crushed by the wave.

Steeling himself for the wall of water he expected to come down, Treebeard was surprised when he felt his feet give way and water suddenly sweep beneath him pulling him from below. And then they were suddenly separated, torn apart, scattered on the crest of a smaller current. The water was great regardless, and as he broke the surface Treebeard noted that the towering wave was gone. He found himself kicking to find ground but noted none. But he had no time to regard the outside world for the water tugged on him and it was as if hands were dragging him down and he was below the surface once more.

He kicked, fighting then what he knew was Sauron trying to sink him to the bottom of the lake. Pushed below surface, he could see Gimli and Celeborn also fighting to remain though they sank as if anchored. He saw nothing of Thranduil.

A din of noise rang out then. Not a physical sound, it was as if the Song, the Great Song was changing, and then it became something more. And then a great turbulence spun him and he found himself lost in a dizzying current, suddenly unaware of direction. Somehow he had the sense that the water was receding, that for as much as he was being tossed about, the body of water was thinning. This was confirmed when he found himself dropped most unceremoniously on the shore where he had previously stood, the water having slid away from him as he lolled onto his belly. He coughed to clear his throat and heard the hacking sounds of Gimli and Celeborn nearby.

Carefully he lifted his head and body, wary of the nearness of his small friends. "Thranduil?" he called out, for he did not hear the other elf.

But in bending, he was able to rise and he saw then the state of their circumstance. Gimli and Celeborn were helping each other to rise. The Huorns seemed to have crept ever closer but they did not threaten. The lake had remolded into its previous form and the island was yet unscathed. And looking there, Treebeard saw Thranduil.

The elf stood on the bridge that he had previously started over and he was nearly on the distant shore. But if he progressed forward he took this moment to pause for he stood where he was, arms stretched out to either side, as if in offering. But then Treebeard realized he was not loosely compliant; there was might in his gesture and he discerned then that Thranduil was using great force.

Speaking in a voice that broke the din of the music that permeated the walls, breeching the song of the Huorns and even that of the thread of Song that rose under and above it all, Thranduil called out. "Sauron, it is I who will bargain with you for I am the one who has teased your wrath. You have my son. I have Nenya. Release my child and you may have what I offer."

TBC


	59. Union of the Heart

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Fifty-Seven: Union of the Heart_

Sauron's figure seemed not to diminish under Thranduil's threat. Instead of relinquishing, easing back, He grew. Taller and taller His form became, darkening like that of a storm cloud, mounting to a height above the trees. And the stern ferocity of the demon lord's face was telling. Thranduil trembled, recalling Sauron's figure as He stood at the gates of Morannon. He had feared then, cowering under the shadow. But that was then when Sauron had greater powers. Thranduil quelled his anxieties now, reminding himself that the Dark Lord was weakened here. He had no Ring, no massive army. He was just a fractured spirit, seeking out a means of strength. He was limited by His form and Thranduil had the advantage.

There was no sound, no song coming from the trees at the moment, everything stopping at Thranduil's demand, as if the world had paused to hold its breath. Only the noise created by the churning water could be heard.

"Who has the Earth Stone?" Sauron asked, hovering over the elf's head. Thranduil refrained from smiling though his thoughts told him that indeed Sauron was a weaker god than what he had known.

Yet the elf knew he must not underestimate Sauron. The demon lord was dangerous regardless of what powers He could and could not master. Thranduil did his utmost to school his expression. Still he must speak. "Can you not sense Its owner?" he asked, the corners of his mouth sliding up as if in coy response, hinting, inferring.

The titan figure regarded him carefully, but then drew His head up as He closed His eyes, drawing inward. And then He opened them again and stared once more at Thranduil. The elf held his breath as the watery creature decided His mind. "I sense the Ring is held by someone with power greater than It has known in a long while. It is pleased."

"I made a trade," Thranduil said with simplicity, a small dip to his head. It was there, the impression, the clues, the hint. Sauron need only read it, take it.

The water figure maintained Its intimidating gaze, fixing Thranduil with Its dominating presence. And then He spoke His conclusion. "Galadriel has it." He drew back as if assessing the situation, looking both certain and in askance.

The bait was nibbled. Thranduil continued carefully. "A promise was made me that should You assert Your dominance over me, this very mountain would be torn down."

Sauron laughed dismissively. "She has not the power! She knows not how to wield it!"

But to be astute he must argue this. "She is practiced in her mastery. Galadriel is accustomed to commanding Nenya. She feels she is right to be confident in what she does now," Thranduil angled.

Sauron narrowed His eyes suspiciously. "How is it she will know if you are endangered?"

"We had not thought to be separated. But our Rings speak to one another. If Passion calls, she will don It I think." It was a lie, but Thranduil was venturing a gamble.

Silence pressed on Thranduil then as he waited for Sauron's reply and he could almost see the Dark Lord piecing together the possibilities this bit of news projected. Slowly He drew forward, encircling Thranduil in His shadow, lingering over this discovery. And then He said in a long slow voice, "You bring me a gift."

Bait taken. The elf bowed his head, the gesture read, just as he had hoped. "She is Yours should You have her," he replied, being clear in what he was offering.

Celeborn cried out, "Thranduil! What is this you do?"

Exultant, Sauron stood again, trumpeting His joy to the sky. "For should she put on the Ring, she will be in my power! Yes! Yes! Nenya was unknown to me without The One Ring. But the Dwarfstone I command! She will be unable to resist my will!"

"Do not do this, Thranduil!" Celeborn called again.

But Thranduil ignored the cries of his kin, doing as he must to win his bid to free Legolas. "So it shall be if it pleases You, Lord," he replied in answer to Sauron.

The water figure glanced to Mithtaur who seemed to read His thoughts then, trumpeting out a command Thranduil could not understand. Several dozen Huorns backed away from the circle, disappearing into the outer world. And then Sauron turned his gaze back down upon the elf, regarding him as if His respect had increased. "You do this to barter a deal," He summarized.

"It is the tool I have to use," the elf nodded.

"You would give her away so easily?" the Dark Lord enquired.

"As you have pointed out, she has done same to me on several occasions. I will not hesitate to offer it of her."

"This was not as we agreed, Cousin!" Celeborn continued his harangue but Thranduil ignored him.

The watery figure with His voice speaking from the shore laughed raucously. "Revenge!" He stabbed a finger to the sky. "Revenge is just, is it not, Thranduil? Is it not delicious?"

He swept forward, but Thranduil pressed out his hands and Sauron found Himself halted, His form blocked from moving too near the elf. "We have yet to come of accord," Thranduil reminded.

An unkind grimace marred Sauron's face as He glanced down at the path before Him. Thranduil thought then it was almost as if He could see the wall Thranduil created there. And then He looked back at the gathering surrounding Legolas on the island. "You want the release of your son," He concluded.

"It is a simple deal," the elf king answered.

"Yet not enough. What else do you offer?" Sauron asked, unfazed.

Thranduil was taken aback. "What more need I offer? I give You the Lady. Has that not always been Your desire?"

"Once perhaps, but now I have need to return to my former self. Possessing the Lady Galadriel at this time will not promote my cause," Sauron's answer came blithely.

"You can manipulate her. You can enslave her, keep her in Your thrall!" Thranduil argued.

"But I cannot house her body, Elf, and that is what I desire foremost. For if I could, do you not think it would have been easier for me to just take _you?_ Long ages ago I could have done this. It would have been much easier than carrying out this recent exercise with your son," Sauron explained, sweeping his hand in the direction of the island.

"Then take me. I am willing. I would give myself if it would convince You to let him go," Thranduil offered, knowing his entreaty held a desperate note.

"So you have said. But I already have you. I own you even without benefit of a Ring. So long as I hold your son, I hold you," the Dark Lord said hungrily, wolfishly. Then pointing back to Celeborn, He added, "These others are expendable to me, even Galadriel. But you I have purpose for."

"And what might that be?" Thranduil asked with hesitation.

"Sometimes it is hard to gauge the strength these trees wield. Mithtaur struck your Legolas. He was wounded. The injury does not heal. His soul fades. He need not die. If he is treated, he may live."

"Give him over and I will see it done," the elf said eagerly, hoping.

"Nay, that is not in my plan."

Now Thranduil began to see that his scheme would not go as he had imagined. "And what is your plan?" he asked warily.

Directing His gaze back to Legolas, Sauron said, "I will house him. And then you will nurse him to wellness."

"And if I choose not to?" Thranduil countered, suddenly fearful of what the evil lord had contrived.

"You will not save your son? I do not believe it so. Not of you, Thranduil! These others…Celeborn, the dwarf, Fangorn… I have no need for them for they would slay him as he lays. I can destroy you as well, but I know you will not desert your son," Sauron said. And then he drew nearer, slowly sliding forward like a slithering snake. "He is dying. You know this. He is too weak to see to his own healing."

"If that is so, then you will die with him," Celeborn shouted.

"You will not let it come to that, will you, Thranduil? You will not knowingly let your son die," Sauron asked, his voice like a hiss. "Can you let that happen? Can you let that happen even if I reside within his body too?

"If I do this it will not be him but You I save," Thranduil argued. Truly he was torn, for he had no intention of letting Sauron have his way. But neither would he let Legolas die. This much Sauron perceived correctly.

"It is his body, his soul too. A part of his spirit will remain," Sauron admitted.

"I cannot let that happen," the elf shook his head. But Thranduil despaired for he knew the words a lie. So long as he thought Legolas yet remained, he would do whatever it took to save him. He tried not to speak this, but his face must have said as much. Sauron pressed in on him and he felt compelled to reply, to make another plea. "He is an innocent in all of this. He knows nothing of the sins I have committed in my willingness to aid You all these years. Please, my lord, let me offer myself first. I am whole. I rule a people who would follow my words unquestioningly. I command a Ring of Power. And I would give my body over to You willingly. All of these would be Yours if You but took me instead of him."

"Ai, Elf! I think we should disclose what we may... keep this 'honest' if you will. Even a farmer engaged in a horse trade will look in the mouth so he might judge the teeth of the animal. Do you not want to exam the teeth, Thranduil?" And He leaned in so close Thranduil could imagine he felt the Dark Lord's breath brushing across his skin, caressing like a kiss, though he knew the water creature truly had no voice beyond Mithtaur's. "Do you understand what you offer?"

And with that Mithtaur took three steps forward and snatched Thranduil into his fist. The world spun as the elf was whipped around. He heard the cry of the others as this unexpected action commenced, but he did not fight the Ent. He found himself a moment later tossed to the ground on the island, Mithtaur looming above him. His hands were held down and he closed them into fists so as to hold to Nenya. Yet he willed himself into inaction. He could feel the Ring urging him but he refused It. _Not yet!_ he spoke in his mind.

"Will you call her?" Mithtaur said as the water creature sneered at him. "She pledged to tear the mountain down if you were harmed. Go ahead and call her."

But he could not.

And Sauron read that. "You know your son will be lost should you do so."

And then the Ent began to run his limbs over Thranduil's downed form, raking his body roughly. Leering, He said, "It is tempting, I will admit. But your son would give willingly as well. Even more so than you! And he has a spirit yet unclaimed." Mithtaur shoved Thranduil aside. "Your _fae_ is attached to your wife. That is why your offer means nothing to me."

Thranduil rolled to his side, scrambling to his knees in pursuit as the Ent came to loom over his son. "No! No! She released me of that bond! Laeraniel severed it ere she died," he cried. "I can be yours. How do I convince you not to do this thing? It is depraved!"

"Legolas does not think it so," Mithtaur said as he lifted Legolas into his arms, carefully stroking his hair back from his face. Thranduil noted that the Huorns had again begun to sing. "I have worked hard for this conquest. I want it. And he thinks it is Faeldaer who touches him, who makes love to him. Look at him!"

His son's head rolled back, the young elf's back arching.

Thranduil rushed forward but one of the willows wrapped arms around him, pushing him back.

"Thranduil, you must do something!" he heard Gimli cry.

"I think you enjoy this, Thranduil. You watched him do like before." Thranduil knew Sauron spoke of that night when he had drugged Legolas and forced him into the seduction with Ethariel. Observing and commenting, Mithtaur, speaking for Sauron, added, "His moans are pleasing."

As if in obeisance, Legolas groaned. But the supine figure was also pushing away and Thranduil gasped in small triumph. Legolas was not giving in. He was fighting off the tree-ish limbs touching him.

"Stop this now!" Thranduil cried. "You will destroy his _fae_ if you pursue like this. He is fighting you. He does not want this any more than he wanted the joining with Ethariel. He shows you his heart. It cannot be claimed. My Lord, I offer it again: Take my body instead! I give!"

Thoughtfully Mithtaur and Sauron together seemed to consider him. And then Mithtaur said, "But you are right, of course. You understand better than I. I always forget the frailty of elven souls. Without his willingness, this would be rape. Elves do not take well to that, do they? They must reciprocate the feelings. They need to feel love when being touched."

The water creature looked up, out. "But hear, now." The music of the Huorns again shifted and Legolas's brow furrowed, his chest heaved. He moaned and sighed, and it seemed then all the resistance in him fell away. His face grew still, the lines of distress smoothed out to calm.

Mithtaur then said, "I think now I might enter him by a different means."

"What have you done?" Thranduil asked noting the sudden lacking resistance in Legolas. Thranduil's brow drew into a frown. He innately understood the shift of the music, but he could not acknowledge it outwardly.

"He gives his heart to Faeldaer - or what he believes is Faeldaer - and real or not, he needs only choose it for it to be enough. His dreams take a new turn. I make him love me this time. I have it in me to make him love me. Watch! See how he changes," the voice of Mithtaur spoke to the gestures of Sauron as the water wavered back and forth. And once more the water creature took on new form. He was then Faeldaer, naked and handsome. He swept a supine figure into his arms and stroked loving hands over that body.

On the island, Legolas took on the intimate role. He arched his back as Mithtaur drew arms around his waist, gasping a sigh of pleasure as the Ent's hand snaked over his body.

"But you have only just proclaimed it!" Thranduil roared.

Sauron laughed once again. "It matters not in dreams. In dreams there is no hold to time. You see I speak the truth. Look now, Thranduil, see how I manipulate him." Mithtaur then lifted Legolas into an upright pose. "Wake now, Precious One, and see. Your father is here. What might you say to him?

Legolas's eyes opened lazily, his gaze unfocused. He turned his face up and searched vacantly before catching sight of Thranduil. His expression lit up at the sight, but his words were little more than a whisper.

"… see me … wed, Father?" he said, smiling, laughing even. His arms were thrown out to the side and he teetered unsteadily. The words melted one into another, slurring as if spoken by a drunkard, his voice fading in and out. "… Iwillnotstray ... no more do… wander ... amhappy… areyounot happy… for me …? ...have your wishfor…me at last."

Thranduil thought he might drift off then but Legolas turned to look across the water and he focused on Gimli there. "Be happyforme... such joy... elvellon...shallremain here."

These words seemed to exhaust him for he began to fall back. Mithtaur easily caught him. The water figure looked on with glee.

"That is good, Legolas. Now sleep. Sleep. Sleep." And the elf obeyed, laying back into the Ent's hand, his head rolling back, his eyes drifting shut. The Ent's other hand began to trail over his body again, seductively as his deep voice continued gleefully, the figure of Sauron grinning. "You should be pleased, Thranduil. You may thank me. I have fixed your mistakes. Did you not notice that he has learned to forgive you? That is my doing."

"Release him!" Thranduil demanded turning back to the water creature. He struck out his hand then, smashing away the image of Faeldaer making love to his son.

Sauron reformed and his expression was angered. "You seem to think we barter here. WE DO NOT!"

And then once more Thranduil was grabbed, spun, tossed to the ground. It was the willows that took him, crushing him into the earth before them. He tasted dirt. And then he felt dozens of what felt like hands running over his body, touching him. It was aggressive, unkind, brutish. Distantly he could hear Mithtaur speaking though he knew it was Sauron uttering the queries. "Does this please you, Elf? Do you give willingly still?"

It felt as if thick hands ran over his thighs, his hips, his sex. He was pressed, but it did not arouse him. Above him towered one of the Huorns. What he could see of its eyes were half-closed, its gaze upon him intent. Harder it pressed, digging as if to rip through his body. This was a rape. "No!" he cried out.

"This is what I require of you! Where are your words of love?"

But it hurt. Something hard, unrelenting, was pushing against his backside, and he felt fingers, hands, untying the stays on his breeches, coaxing beneath his small clothes. And then fingers were spreading his buttocks, plying digits toward the tight canal he refused admittance to. He fought then, not liking the touches, the near penetration. "No!"

"Thranduil!" he heard his cousin cry, but it was so distant, so far away, and for a moment he forgot there was another plan in place.

He tried to kick away but he was held down. Above him he heard the tree creature groan and even more distantly he heard Fangorn roar. There was a commotion on the opposite shore and he knew there were shouts.

The Ring was burning the flesh of his finger. He knew It was creating a surge in the water though he was uncertain what form it took. He did not care. He had to be free of this!

The Huorn drew back suddenly then. He knew not why but he rolled away, quickly drawing his clothing about him, feeling shamed as rolled over and composed himself. He then came to stand. He looked up as Mithtaur spoke. "I rather like the idea of breeching you, but this is a useless exercise. It is like beating a cur. There is no conquest in tormenting a beast who has already been beaten. Nothing changes." Suddenly a branch from one of the willows lashed out, striking him across the ribs. The sound of Mithtaur's laugh rang in his ears as he was thrown to the ground once more. The fierce pain that comes of broken bones made him gasp for air as he curved his hands around his middle. The pain momentarily paralyzed him. Tears burned his eyes.

But he turned back when he heard the sound of fabric tearing. Once more Mithtaur stood over Legolas, gathering him up and running his hand over the elf's torso. Frayed clothing fell away with little effort on the Ent's part, the motion equal to a child running his fingers through the dirt. Thranduil found his legs and rushed forward, one arm curled around his waist as he pushed with his opposite shoulder against the body of the Ent. But there was no moving the creature. Sweeping around, he tried to get between them, but he was once more pushed away, tossed to the ground like a small toy.

The Huorns picked up their song and Legolas sighed, gazing up and smiling at some unseen vision. "No! Do not do this!" Thranduil pleaded.

Legolas's voice carried whispered words and Thranduil was compelled forward by his fear. He knew those words. They were the prayer vows of love. The words of betrothal. _Erthad a hun. _Union of the heart.

Thranduil sobbed. "Legolas, wake! Wake now!" he begged.

"Thranduil, make this end!" Gimli called out, and the elf then remembered all on the opposite shore were witness to this as well.

"Is it not interesting the make up of elves?" Faeldaer's watery figure danced on the shore while the Ent gently coaxed the elf to arousal. Legolas arched his back into the Ent's stroking hands. Mithtaur gazed directly at Thranduil as he continued his harangue. "No other creature bonds as elves do. And the words for this... your kind knows them by instinct alone. Is it the Song that allows you to do this? Those harmonious chords do not play to my ear, and so I ask."

Horrorstruck, Thranduil watched as the Ent laid Legolas to the ground so he might better do this. He ran limbs, roots, twisting vines over that supine body, the simile likened to a nest of writhing snakes. They were weaving around his son's hips, waist, thighs, chest. Yet Legolas was not absent. He was roused to movement, his hips rounding, pelvis thrusting, gasps of pleasure rising in his throat. And words. Short pants were escaping his lips as he rocked his head side to side, forming the words that came so naturally. It was the Song of his soul he was speaking, singing. Sauron was right in this, for no elf was ever taught what to say in moments of ecstatic joining; the words were simply an affirmation of love built from the notes of Song.

The climb toward fulfillment ensued and Thranduil could feel in his bond the spirit of his son lightening. "Legolas, wake!" he shouted, panicked.

"Thranduil!" Celeborn called. He heard his cousin, knew why he cried out. It was time. They must act. But he feared for Legolas. Mithtaur towered over him, his base planted and running over the elf's comparably small frame. In his precarious position, his son could be crushed if the Ent merely applied his weight. Yet Legolas continued to utter the words of his Song.

Simultaneously, his heart felt the shearing of his bond with his son. Sauron's body hovered nearer, over and behind Mithtaur, a voyeur witnessing the lurid act. The water's rhythm matched the thrusts of his son's hips. And Thranduil knew the moment his son reached the pinnacle of his ecstasy, the high notes of his Song, that the water would pore down upon him, washing him in a wave, his body immersed in a baptism of meshing spirit. Sauron would claim Legolas's released soul as He claimed his very body.

Desperately he looked back at his companions. He had tried all else. He was left with only this choice. And he despaired for he felt certain it would mean Legolas's death. Still he would fight.

"Gimli, now!" he shouted, for it was the dwarf, not Galadriel who held the Dwarfstone. It was time to reveal this secret. _Nenya, now!_ he cried in his mind. He pushed out his hand. The watery giant was rocked as if Thranduil had physically shoved him. And then the earth began to shake.

Looking up, looking out, Sauron's form turned away from the joining act. The anger in His eyes spoke like words. And then His figure melted into the lake and He was gone. It was but a momentary departure for the water began to churn and curl and Thranduil could feel the greater press of the demon lord upon his control of the water. He felt as if his chest was constricting with an unseen pressure, and he recognized that Sauron would challenge Nenya, fighting for dominance over the water.

The earth shuddered, but it was the surrounding lands that seemed effected, not the island where Mithtaur stood. The trees surrounding the lake shuffled as the ground beneath them quaked. Yet on the island, unmoved and seemingly unaware, Mithtaur continued his writhing, rhythmic touches over Legolas's body. Thranduil could feel Legolas's spirit journeying further as the lewd act continued.

"Gimli! Stop him! Here! The island!" Thranduil commanded. And then regardless the pressure Thranduil found building against him and his mastery of the Ring, he waved his hand at the water. It felt heavy, leaden, and all he could manage was to toss a spray of water at the coupling. Yet in truth this was all he had wanted, and the affect served his purpose. His son cried out at the jarring invasion. Thranduil had interrupted Legolas's rising Song.

The Ent startled then, drawing back and lifting his head in a roar. He sounded out a booming command, pointing. His great hands directed his Huorns to the trio on the mainland shore. Thranduil could see Celeborn and the dwarf climbing into Fangorn's limbs as the Huorns that formed the walls of the fortress moved in on them. But the barrier keeping Fangorn's army without dissipated and trees were breaking through.

Suddenly battle had begun. Thunderous shouts of exclamation, banging drums of wooden limbs cracking against one another, and the tangling melee of complex action and havoc erupted.

Mithtaur's face showed his furor. The water of the lake rolled and swelled. "You shall see your son dead!" Mithtaur proclaimed as the island willows charged him. The elf took up his strength with the water again, struggling against its weight, tossing small waves at the Huorns as he backed away. He found himself pushed out onto the bridge regardless, once more exposed to the full of the lake environment and Sauron's force.

Thranduil glanced around him. The water rocked in the pool as if rolling in a basin, forming waves. He dropped to a squat as the first of a series came to assault him. Gasping, Thranduil thrust forward his hand and the water was propelled back to the precarious edge of the walkway. He expelled a sob as another came at him again; he could feel Sauron's force in the power of the wave. The thrust he had felt earlier was minor. Sauron was more powerful than he had anticipated. He was able to push the water away, to keep his foothold, but this would not be so easy a task.

Thranduil could hear Legolas's cry then and he turned to track Mithtaur. The Ent crushed the helpless elf in his fist. "You will obey me!" Mithtaur howled. And then tossing Legolas's body to the ground, he lifted his mighty foot, slowly lowering it over the lifeless figure. He would crush Legolas into the earth.

But the dwarf must have been watching, for he was working his own magic, uttering words of control. _"It is held by someone with power greater than It has known in a long while,"_ Sauron had said of Passion, and this was true, for the dwarf was a better master to the Ring than any elf could be. And Sauron, not holding the One Ring, did not know him, could not penetrate Gimli's mind. The dwarf was no servant to His demands.

The earth beneath Legolas then opened. It swallowed him. At the same moment the ground behind Mithtaur cracked apart. The forward momentum of the Ent was lost. Instead of stepping down, the tree creature fell back, crashing with a mighty boom. Yet Thranduil could see the hole where Legolas fell was open and he had to believe his son safe for the moment. Briefly he reached out and could feel a touch of his son's spirit. But he had to be satisfied with that for the world around Thranduil was in chaos.

Once more the water rose. And though Sauron had no one to speak His rage, His liquid form alone created a roar as the water billowed up, the roiling sound reminiscent of the round moan of the ocean as it gathers strength before breaking on its shore. A mountain, a wall of water rose before him, and this time Thranduil was not sure he could stave its crash. The figure of Sauron once more towered above. His fury was evident in the hatred in His eyes.

"There! There!" Gimli directed from the opposite shore, but Thranduil was not sure if he spoke to him or if he directed his own actions. Suddenly the earth rumbled and rocked, and the stone bridge Thranduil stood upon started to tilt away. "There!" the dwarf cried again. Glancing down, Thranduil could see a fissure opening on the raised walkway, splitting it apart. The crack continued, a single line, tracing all the way from the opening where Mithtaur had fallen back on the sole island to the ground on the opposite shore of the mainland. The rift tore and widened while the dwarf drew a line straight out, pointing to the forest that closed in behind him. The Huorns fell away as the ground split open. And then the cliff that opened to the valley and subsequent forest below was made visible to them all.

The channel was cut. It was a canal, a route for the water to flow, and Thranduil watched as rocks, boulders and earth exploded, clearing the path to the cliff's edge. Gimli was opening the lake and driving it to a fall, removing one side of the bowl. And indeed Sauron's figure dipped as the nature of gravity swept a wash of water over the newly cut pathway, over the ledge. The giant stumbled. But then He drew up, stopping the force, as if an invisible dam had been erected to keep Him there. Thranduil knew then this was Sauron's strength.

Gathering his own will, Thranduil pushed their foe while Gimli continued to rout deeper. Sauron slipped as the lake wall continued to fall away. Yet He only tumbled slightly, recovering though His scale diminished with some of the water's escape.

"You will lose!" Thranduil exclaimed as he thrust again with both hands, the strength in him enough to push the demon lord backward though in truth it felt the weight of an oliphaunt. It was not enough. The watery figure rocked, like water rolling in a bowl. But for Thranduil's thrust, Sauron countered, and it seemed He would not relinquish.

"It's because He yet has ground beneath Him!" Gimli shouted, and Thranduil was surprised to find him running along the stone bridge to meet him. "I shall tear it away from Him."

Yet Sauron would not part. Despite the falling away of the stone walls, His amorphous form clung to what remained of the lake bed, like lichen to rock. He would fight to live.

Opening out his senses, Thranduil felt keenly the flow of water drawing out of the mountains and an idea came to him. He smiled then, suddenly laughing, for his joy came maniacally. The dwarf cocked his head, searching, likely thinking him mad, but that only added to Thranduil's jubilation. He knew the answer. It was not just Gimli who could move the earth.

He stretched out his arms, calling it to him then. He did not need to battle Sauron directly. There were sources greater than He that he could call upon. And Thranduil had the power, suddenly realizing it. With his mind directed away from Sauron, he felt as if he could summon the ocean if he so chose. He could feel it building, water pulsing forth, building pressure. He knew he would later pay the price but he did not care. "Come," he whispered, commanding the elements.

Then it exploded, an underground stream sprang to life, gushing like a siphon. "Come!" he urged, and the water flooded out, pouring out of the surrounding hills in great torrents of white water. And the mountain waters flowed into the lake basin, splashing and shooting to the sky while rolling down to merge with the figure of Sauron. It overwhelmed, burying the creature under the flumes of frothing liquid. He had summoned the waters within the mountain itself.

"Come!" Thranduil shouted, and he could see the watery form of the Dark Lord stretch out a hand, as if to grasp to something He might hold. But there was nothing there. There was nothing to hold Him in place, the power of the mountain's strength and pressure greater than He. The water kept rolling, energy so fierce as to crush anything caught in its wake. No Man or Elf or even Ent could withstand its pull, Thranduil was certain. And so he pinned his hope that the water too could wash away the evil.

Sauron's hand fell away, and then another rose, but it too was dragged down, pulled further. To Thranduil's mind, it was like the sight of a drowning man, helpless and overpowered. Only he was an aid to this. The hand reached again, trying to grasp, only it seemed to be losing its form, meshing with something bigger and wider and not tainted with evil and poison. Again it sank away, fighting still the current of the racing waters. And the roiling water bubbled and churned, pushing, pushing. Once more Thranduil saw the hand lift, its form barely recognizable, struggling as the water dissipated, fading to a weakening shape. And one final time it rose as it drifted over the cliff, pouring into the waterway below, shape lost to the oblivion of the now rapidly soaring river.

"Go," Thranduil said, as he eased his thoughts away, feeling the mountain calm, the water slowing. As he settled into his relief, he watched what was left of the lake as it drained away, emptying like a dry sink. He was breathing hard as he pulled Nenya from his finger. It was done. Sauron was gone, expelled to the greater waterways where His evil would be diluted to insignificance.

Exhausted, Thranduil was done.

But he was deluged then by another pressure upon his soul. Immediately he felt the sea singing in his ears. His stomach turned.

This was the price. Galadriel had warned him when she had presented the Ring to him. _"Nenya will guide you, but once It rests upon your finger, you will forever be a thrall of the sea. So long as you remain on these shores you will be summoned by its call,"_ she had said. It had been why she had tested him and his resolve to put right all that had been done wrong. She needed to know he would willingly give up himself for the sake of his son, to suffer another punishment in penance for all he had done. He did not run.

He would hence be afflicted, but he would gladly take it if it would spare Legolas. An ache pulled at his heart so suddenly he thought he would cry. He recognized the _cuivëar_ then, the sea longing, understanding the affliction he was now victim to. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the rocky remains of the previously hidden bridge. Dizzy, he was overwhelmed by the ocean sounds crashing in his ears. His mind was reeling and he could barely make sense of who he was, where he was.

"No!" a voice penetrated the din. It was enough to draw his attention away from his affliction. He followed it, looking for the source. And there he saw. Gimli, running, waving his hands, the ground tearing up with each move he made. Thranduil could not make sense of his actions, so thick was his head. But then he realized the dwarf was trying to ward off the Ent, Mithtaur, who was digging deeply. Digging.

Digging. What was he digging?

And suddenly it all made sense to Thranduil. Mithtaur was not digging, he was burying.

"Legolas!" he shouted, scrabbling to rise to his feet. And then he was running too, leaping over the broken stone, cutting his hands as he fell, grunting as his ribs were once more jarred. But he was oblivious to any pain, thinking only that he could not feel his link to his son.

He could see Gimli fighting the Ent off, tearing up the earth just as quick as Mithtaur. "Stop him! Stop him!" he was shouting. He looked around, seeing the battle still raging among the trees. And in it all, those who could free themselves were fighting to cross the emptied lake basin. He noticed then the deep hollow that had been dug and the ugly waste that had been made. "Stop him!" he repeated.

And suddenly, in leaping strides, Fangorn was crossing the bed and racing to Gimli's aid. Thranduil too had reached his feet and was running across the stony bridge again, coming to its end just as Fangorn delivered a thundering blow to his fellow denizen. Mithtaur rocked with the hit, his body snapping back, but he kept his feet, advancing in time to receive another strike. This time he fell away, retreating. Thranduil noticed that the battle seemed to be ending and that Mithtaur was fleeing into the midst of Fangorn's advancing troops.

Thranduil turned then, feeling weak and frightened, looking to the place where his son should be. Legolas had fallen into the trench, but that had been all. It had been an open hole. Yet now there was no hole. Now the earth was covered over. He dropped to his knees, started digging just as Gimli began to thrush out a new trench. But where was he to look? The earth was horribly torn apart and he could not see where his son had originally lay.

"Oh!" Gimli cried, and then the ground began to turn, just as the lake had before. It rolled, circled, spewing up rocks and debris where it was turned over. Endlessly it churned, dirt and rock. Thranduil spun in searching frenzy, hunting, seeking, seeing nothing but mud and stone. And suddenly, in the next moment, Legolas emerged, born of the earth, rolling over like one more piece of debris, almost unseen in his lifeless form.

But Thranduil saw him and he cried out. He rose from the mud, burdened by its heavy thickness, struggling to get to the limp figure. His eyes never left Legolas for Thranduil feared to look away was to lose him again. Legolas was covered in mud completely, his skin coated in the sheen of dark muck, almost orcish and unrecognizable in the mire of the ooze, his body naked from where the Ent had torn away his clothes. But Thranduil saw him, his son, and he pushed forward as Gimli did the same. Legolas lay still, unmoving.

Gimli reached him first, drawing him up into his arms, cradling his head like an infant child. Stillborn.

"He's not breathing!" the dwarf cried. And Thranduil knew it to be true for he could feel nothing of the presence of his son in their bond.

**TBC**


	60. Toxic Ruin

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Fifty-Nine: Toxic Ruin_

Galadriel's feet lightly touched to the ground as Fangorn lowered her. She did not turn to acknowledge him as she knew he did not stop to watch her retreat. They both had urgent tasks to see to and the moment was not appropriate for pleasantries or entreaties. It had been enough for her to thank him for safeguarding her during the fight and then to be excused with his reply of, "I have work to do."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the forest lord speed off to a skirmish still in progress. But for that, the battle seemed done and the conquering Huorns were busied by herding those they had defeated into small clusters that made them easier to secure. She wondered briefly as to what punishment might be dealt them but knew that was not hers to mete out. Ultimately it was Mithtaur who would suffer, but her heart felt pity for him, not anger. The devastation to his lands might be punishment enough.

The forest and mountainside landscape were terribly altered and she gazed about her, taking in the torn land and the rift in the hillside made by the undammed waters. Silty swaths, like brushstrokes of rusty dreck, painted the cliffs and she glanced down to see the lower plains flooded from where the water had overflowed the banks of the river. But she knew Sauron was gone. Even without Nenya she could sense His presence parted. Thranduil and Gimli had succeeded.

Guilt plagued her though, for she knew that their plan had unleashed Sauron's poison upon the world. Yet she also know that, like a toxin given in full strength, Sauron could be deadly; diluted and made mute by His smallness though, He could do no substantial ill. She had to satisfy herself with that for she knew it was the only way to finish what was left of Him in this world. The damage He had created would live on until time reabsorbed the harm, and the bounties of nature overtook any signs of Him. It was like the scarred mountainside before her: now it looked like a haunted wasteland, but in a short number of years, grasses and seedlings would take root and cover over the hurt Sauron had laid here. The world would heal.

But not all could be healed by taking the outward hurt away, and she turned her attention to her own.

She called out instructions to those she passed. "Check that our camp is yet intact. If not, improvise a healing ward for the injured. We will need a surgery and beds for recovery. Boil water, but do not take it from the river. Supplement with that of the Celebrant beyond. Send errand runners to fetch more. The water needs be pure and untainted."

Turning, she spotted the healer, Gilfonel, attending to a broken arm. She noted that he had already splinted it and was applying the last touches to wrapping it. If this was the worst of their injuries, she thought, they had fared well. Still, without Nenya, she could not know fully what had occurred on the other side of the wall during this battle. The only assurance she had was that her bond with Celeborn remained intact and strong. But what of the others?

"You will come with me," she directed the healer as he she neared. Handing over the loose ends of the wrap to an aide, Gilfonel nodded and quickly grabbed up his satchel, following her footsteps.

They hurried to the rift in the cliffside where the lake had been torn away, climbing over rocks and torn earth. The ground was thick and despite her lean form and elven skills, her boots sank into the muck with each step she took. But in moments they had covered enough ground that they came upon the scene. The emptied basin of the lake and the tumbled bridge that had connected the island to the surrounding land were strangely incongruent to what had been there before. The stone was in ruins while the lakebed was a swamp of fetid mud and orange-colored fungi that seemed to ooze rank air. Yet Thranduil and Gimli had somehow made the crossing. On the opposing shore she could see them pulling up a mud-covered figure, turning him over as if birthing him from the earth. Legolas.

"He was buried alive! We must hurry!" Celeborn beckoned as he came to her side. He took her hand to help balance her as they stepped quickly in that direction.

Knowing his place, Gilfonel ran to the torn up walkway but was stymied by the difficulty it presented. She turned just then, seeing the Ent, Lendglad, racing to join them. "_Hoohoom_you should allow me to take you there if this path is hindering you," he offered.

She immediately climbed into the proffered palm, pulling Gilfonel up with her as Celeborn hopped into the Ent's upper branches. Even in crossing deep mud and thick detritus, Lendglad made the crossing in a mere dozen strides.

As she neared the scene she recalled the dual images she had seen in the mirror, the declaration that Legolas was alive in one scenario, dead in another, and she watched, trying to discern from Thranduil and Gimli's actions which fate had come to be. Both elf and dwarf seemed to be panicked by what they uncovered, but that told her little. She saw Gimli remove his cape, draping it over his friend, but she could determine nothing from that either. Thranduil and the dwarf hovered over the supine figure and anxiously she chewed her lip, left clueless as to the outcome yet. As they arrived, Galadriel and the healer jumped away before the Ent could lower them to the ground, Celeborn dropping from his branches. Again she saw the Ent hurry off, for the willows were still wild and she deemed he needed to round them up before they hurt someone.

Yet it was Legolas her attention went to. "He is not breathing," Thranduil declared over his shoulder at their approach.

"Clear his mouth," Gilfonel ordered as he dropped to the ground, opposite the king.

Thranduil pried Legolas's lips apart and scooped out wet mud, like that which covered the elf's body.

"He still has a pulse," the healer declared before taking over Thranduil's duty, tilting Legolas's head back, parting his lips, pressing his mouth to the opened mouth, and pushing breath into the unmoving body.

For a long minute she held her own breath as the healer administered these life-saving measures, breath after breath. He drew back then, watching, listening, and she watched too. And then she saw it. Legolas's chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. They were shallow, those inhales, exhales, but they were present. "He breathes on his own," Gilfonel finally announced, and she sighed in relief.

But she knew they were not out of the shadows yet. Gilfonel set about his exam then, glancing immediately at the glaring wound on Legolas's thigh. With practice gained from warrior experience, he schooled his features, giving nothing away, but she knew him well enough to register his actions as telling of his concerns. _It is the most dooming of his wounds,_ she thought. _But it does not pour blood and hence he determines it must wait for his greater attention. _And indeed, Gilfonel backed away from the wound, perusing the rest of the body. Her eyes followed.

Legolas's skin was completely covered in the thick muck of the earth and his features were distorted so he was nearly unrecognizable. Except for the lean length of his body, he could have been an orc, she thought.

The healer used his hands and started at the head, running fingers over the body, feeling for breaks or tears to the bones and flesh. He paused immediately, gazing to her as he announced, "There was a strike to the head, here." And though she could not tell the exact place, she could see his touch was concentrated to the back of the head, behind the right ear. "It is healing, but there is still a knot where the blow fell."

He then drew the head down and ran a hand over Legolas's brow, lifting his lids to look into his eyes. He grimaced as he said, "He is drugged… or concussed. Mayhap both. He runs a fever."

Continuing, he ran his hands over the ribcage, drawing back slightly and then reexamining with a gentler touch. He immediately pressed upon the elf's belly before going to the elf's arms, checking for breaks there. "Two ribs are broken, but there is no internal bleeding."

He reached beneath the figure then, looking as if he was hugging the mud-covered elf, but she knew he was running his fingers over the length of the spine. Nodding then, he had Thranduil aid him in rolling Legolas to his side so he could look for wounds from behind. He whispered a curse. "I cannot see his skin to note the bruises, but I can feel the heat of them. I am sure they are here."

And then they lowered Legolas once more and the healer drew aside the cloak Gimli had draped over his friend to guard his modesty. The healer ran his eyes over the lower half of the body with practiced eyes before he moved hands over the right leg. Apparently satisfied that he had searched for anything that might be more serious, he settled himself before the gaping wound in the left leg.

Pulling his waterskin from across his shoulder, Gilfonel twisted open the stopper and poured the contents over the wound, washing away what mud he could without touching the injury. He looked up at Galadriel and said, "I will need more water."

"Our men go for more," she answered. 'The water from the river is not safe for our use."

"This wound needs to be bathed thoroughly," the healer said.

Gimli, who had been silently standing at the healer's back, grunted and handed over his own waterskin. "We'll need a stretcher to move him then. And a cleared path to make that journey," the dwarf said. "I will fix the bridge."

"And I will get a stretcher." Celeborn nodded, then added, "And more water." The two parted, Celeborn leaping to the shoulder of the returning Lendglad as Gimli stood before the torn bridge and mustered stones to move by the will of his mind and his Dwarfstone Ring.

Gilfonel washed the wound again using the water Gimli had given him, this time with a low moan of protest evoked from Legolas. He frowned as he lightly prodded the wound. Legolas did not make a sound, but his head turned with the probing, and his brow furrowed in clear pain. "I am sorry that I hurt you," the healer whispered as he maintained his exam, squeezing and poking the wound.

He looked at Thranduil this time as he said, "There are shards within. They will have to be removed."

"I have ordered a surgery made," Galadriel offered and Gilfonel acknowledged this with a nod.

He draped the cloak over the elf again and then bent over him so as to look in his eyes once more. "I dare not give him anything to mask the pain as I do not know what has been dosed him."

"He was fed Mithtaur's draught," Thranduil replied in distaste. "It was tainted by the poisoned waters of this lake."

"We will need to detoxify his system then," Gilfonel added, lifting a hand and wiping away the mud with a corner of the cloak so as to look at the coloring of his nails.

"I cannot feel his bond," Thranduil offered, and the healer glanced up, frowning.

"Has he a mate?" Gilfonel asked.

"None," Thranduil replied in a troubled voice.

"So it is just a paternal bond?"

"Aye," Thranduil confirmed. "It has been weak for many years, but I have always felt it until now."

"What was done to him here?" the healer muttered, more to himself than to either Thranduil or Galadriel.

But Thranduil did not seem to regard the query as rhetorical. "He suffered true evil. They tried to bond his _feä_," he whispered.

"Gods," Gilfonel cursed lowly, leaning in closer to his patient to press a soothing hand to his brow. "Do you know if they succeeded?"

"I know not. I only know I cannot feel the bond," the king answered, his voice quavering with the reply.

The healer then moved his hands to Legolas's chest, closing his eyes, and Galadriel knew what he was about to do. She began to speak, to stop him, but he pulled away just as quick, his movement abrupt, as if he had been burned. "_Cuivëar!_" he exclaimed. He came to his knees then, backing away, as if Legolas might be poison to the touch. "What other plagues might befall this elf?" Gilfonel then looked to Galadriel and she knew what he was going to say before he even spoke. "I cannot treat what ails his _feä_."

"You cannot treat - why?" Thranduil sputtered in alarm.

Galadriel was sure Thranduil had been told such reasoning before. Certainly the Mirkwood healers who had tended Laeraniel, his wife, had explained it. But it was also possible he had been so distraught then that he did not comprehend what they faced. "Legolas suffers _cuivëar_, the sea-longing," she explained to him. "What affects him could affect any who reach into his heart. It is one of the curses to those so afflicted. They will forever be alone, so long as they remain in these lands. It has been my fate ever since I took Nenya, and now it is yours as well. That is why you and I will do what Gilfonel cannot. We will treat Legolas."

"You and I? But I am no healer. Nor are you, or so I came to believe," Thranduil responded in dismay.

"Nay, I am no healer," she agreed, "but Nenya has aided me in fulfilling some of the tasks a healer may do in cases like this. I can do nothing for his outward hurts, but It allows me to touch his _feä. _And now, It does so for you as well."

"But why would you do this? Is this not a healer's duty?" he asked.

"Any healer that brushes the soul of one afflicted with _cuivëar_ risks afflicting himself. He too could fall into the sea-longing if he gave _feäglaur_, the spirit light."

"But Lady Galadriel is already afflicted; the _cuivëar_ can do nothing more to her," Gilfonel supplied.

"It seems not right, a healer who does not try to heal," Thranduil said with a shake of his head and a furrowed brow.

"Our people still need healers, but those who are here cannot be blithe. They must safeguard themselves from that form of suffering. It is the same with mortal healers: they do not blatantly expose themselves to disease if they can help it but instead take precautions to guard their health," she answered.

Thranduil's gaze went down to his son. Tenderly, he brushed some of the mud away from Legolas's brow. "I do not know if he would want me to help him," he softly said.

"You must try," she encouraged. "I do not have a bond with him as you have had. My touch is not natural as a healer's would be. In his present state, should I brush his _feä_ it might be too jarring on him."

"It has been so long," he murmured unsurely.

She knelt next to him and took his hand. "His heart is shorn. You know the consequences if he is not tended."

Thranduil looked up at her wide-eyed. "I would never deny him. I merely say that I do not think he would want my aid."

"Your aid is all that is available to him. At least with you he is familiar," she said.

"His breathing is growing slight. You should do this now," Gilfonel urged.

Thranduil nodded, agreeing. "How — how do we do this?"

"You put your hand here," Galadriel answered, taking his hand and placing it on Legolas's chest. But then noticing he did not wear Nenya, she prompted, "You must put on the Ring."

"I had thought to return It to you," he said, removing it from his tunic, but he did not hand It over. He studied It within the palm of his hand. "Can It help him, do you think?"

She nodded, knowing It could help Legolas _and _him. _Cuivëar_ was the affliction the Ring wrought, but It could ease the illness as well, so long as he wore the Ring. Galadriel knew this, for the pounding sound of the sea echoed in her ears as well, and her heart felt sick. She fought off the urge to snatch Nenya away from him just to make it stop. She also knew her own strength. She could endure the _cuivëar_ without Nenya for a small time more – perhaps a few years even. Thranduil needed the Ring more than she did now. Such was the price he had willingly taken when she had offered It to him. And though Galadriel would miss It, she did not anticipate remaining in Middle Earth much longer. "The Ring is yours now," she answered him. "You will need It as there will be no other way to reach into the bond without It."

He took a deep breath before his mouth flattened into a determined line. Then, he put Nenya on.

Suddenly a light of confidence seemed to radiate from him. He grew taller, taking a deep inhale. Laying hands to Legolas's heart as she had instructed, he began to pour his own energy - his _feäglaur _- into the fading elf. Visibly, there was nothing to be seen, but she knew from experience that the spirit light he was giving was not always outwardly perceivable.

Still, there seemed no reaction from Legolas, and her brow quirked. Was the young elf so far gone? But then Legolas's hand twitched and a small sigh, almost a sob, escaped his lips. His head dipped to one side, and his lips trembled as if he sought to speak words. But he settled a moment later, visibly relaxing into the ministrations. It was working.

That was when she laid her own hands on Thranduil's. It was not for the sake of Legolas that she added her energies. Thousands of years of being a Ringbearer gave her insight into what Thranduil was doing. She knew the toll it could take. Too, Thranduil was inexperienced and would not be sensitive to how much he must pour in and how much he should hold back of himself. Placing her hands upon his own, Nenya would recognize her and draw from her as well. She would feed her energy to him.

She felt the familiar fire spark in her belly and the roll of heat run over her body, down her arms, into her hands. Jubilant energy made her gasp at the lightness she felt, as if she was floating. But it was only a momentary sensation as she settled into the giving. Still, the colors of the world seemed heightened, and she could see the pulse of Thranduil's heart, hear the sound of his eyes widening. And she felt the sea in him, and in Legolas, and she felt the lonely ache of distant shores calling them, all three. Yet the more she poured of herself the further away it sounded, and she comforted herself momentarily in that before drawing control over her actions.

They must stop. The light was equalizing and she would not have him deplete them both. Legolas, in his weakened state, could only take so much before the rest was wasted on him. He would not recover quicker with more. "That is enough," she said to him, pulling her hands back and watching the colors, sounds, sights of the world return to normal. She waited for the weakness to settle into her bones, for that would be next. "He is safe."

Thranduil's eyes were sealed, his head bowed, and she was unsure if he could hear her. But Gilfonel aided her, placing hands on his shoulders and drawing him away. The golden-haired elf king startled, his green eyes shooting open in surprise.

But she soothed, repeating again, "It is enough."

His lips parted as he questioned, "He will need more?"

She nodded, looking to Gilfonel for confirmation.

"Then I will give it," Thranduil agreed without argument, and she suspected he was glad he could do this, though in a short time she also knew he would realize how draining it was.

"There may be many times you do this. But Thranduil, just because it is offered, does not mean he will be healed," she said.

"I thought you said you and I would heal him," the elf pointed out. His hair still shone brightly with the radiant light of the waning sun casting him in orange light. She envied him the beauty Nenya would bestow on him in this.

But for the matter at hand, the healer explained, "If _erthad a hun _took place for Legolas, as you have said, but there was no reciprocation – as you have said - a part of his _feä _is separated from him now. That is what you and Galadriel will attempt to repair. And it may work, for he eagerly seeks to find the other half of the _feä_ he lost. In a real love pairing, the souls would be exchanged, the lovers' spirits conjoined, and each would be left stronger and renewed for it. But in Legolas's case, there was no partner in the exchange of souls. What you give will help him, but it will never complete him as that of a lover's bond."

"But Faeldaer did not exist. Not really," Thranduil argued, his skin beginning to dim of its light as the effects of the treatment seemed to settle on him. He would feel weaker now – she knew – just as she did, and he would need rest in order to recover his strength.

"It is a cruel trick," Gilfonel affirmed, "one Sauron was oft reported to use in His dungeons and the twisted towers at Dol Goldur. It is how many think He was able to mold elves into orcs. No elf would willingly relinquish to the darkness unless his spirit was corrupted. With drugs and enchantments, Sauron would sway the minds of His captives, just as He did with Legolas here. And then once _erthad a hun_ was made, He would co-mingle his dark minions' souls with those of the light-spirited elves. The elves, touched this way, were forever marred, bred and bred again so that their offspring, their progeny, carried on the same traits, growing darker with each generation."

"But Legolas was not mated or made to breed," Thranduil stated.

"That was an even more wicked method of torment Sauron devised. It is said that rather than manipulating the captive elf into a union of the heart, Sauron would do as He did here and create an empty union, one _without_ a second soul. What was left was as you see: a body left with only half its _fae_. In this, Sauron could feed His own energies into the being, for the elf would be so depleted, so in need of completion, he would take anything fed his weakened spirit."

"And in doing so, He could take the elf in both body and mind," Galadriel added.

Thranduil looked down upon his broken son, his face crushing with what was now made clearer to him. But he shook his head in denial. "You say, 'it is said.' Do you not know this in fact?"

Galadriel delivered the dooming news. "None have lived to speak of it."

"You do not know then if Legolas can be saved," Thranduil speculated.

"We can only guess. If his spirit builds anew without need of another to complete him, then perhaps he will be saved," Gilfonel replied. "Your healing light will be needed until then."

But then seeing the angered and refusing expression Thranduil gave to this, Galadriel added, "It is not an impossible expectation, Thranduil. Legolas would not be the first to undergo such healing."

Gilfonel picked this up. "Not all elves enter _erthad a hun_ rightly knowing their hearts. There are still families that delve into arranged marriages." Galadriel saw Thranduil wince, and she immediately regretted beckoning Gilfonel to aid her in explaining their predicament. "They force the young couple to speak the words, to fulfill the act, but they—"

"I need hear no more," Thranduil waved him off.

"-But they are not joined," Gilfonel continued, undeterred and unknowing of the sore subject he was broaching. "They are separate and left wanting, needful of spirit. Of them, many left without aid will fade though a few who are strong of will may live." Thranduil glanced to Galadriel in this and she knew he was thinking of Legolas's survival after the marriage he had tried to manipulate his son into. The Healer went on, "Were it not for _cuivëar_ I would not even have need to explain this, for I could treat him myself. But such is not the case. He will need your light – your _faeglaur_ - to feed him while he recovers strength enough to overcome his ills. _If_ he overcomes his ills. He is very weak."

Thranduil seemed to pale even more, and Galadriel thought perhaps the effects of his succoring were upon him.

"They come," Gilfonel said, his eyes directed to the elves who had crossed the newly repaired barrier and had reached the island. Concerned eyes gazed at the elf king. "Should I have them bring another litter to carry you?" The elves quickly assembled the stretcher they had brought and placed next to Legolas.

"Nay," Thranduil answered, waving the healer's offer away as he drew legs beneath him to stand. Celeborn offered him a steadying hand and the two exchanged wan smiles as Thranduil added, "I can walk on my own good legs."

"I will walk with you," Galadriel said.

Gimli was immediately there, seeming to have appeared almost out of nowhere. His concern was clear by the crease in his brow and his gruff direction, which brooked no argument. His focus was intently on Legolas. "Be gentle with him… Do you not see the state of his leg? Careful now!"

With utmost care, the aiding elves lifted Legolas to the carrier, and wrapping him anew in blankets, they made off with him. Gilfonel trotted along at his side with Gimli fast in their wake.

Galadriel wrapped an arm around Thranduil then, slowing him and offering support. They would not be troubled to keep up for they had done all they could. It would be best to let the healer and his contingent do their jobs in the next few minutes without their hovering presence. She nodded to Celeborn to go as well, and she knew he would see to their needs. She expected two cots would be ready for them when they completed the short walk to the camp.

"He has been maimed of spirit," Thranduil began. He looked so tired, his voice sounded distressed.

"He has been held a captive of evil. We must expect that he would be affected," she countered with true candor.

"He may yet die," the Mirkwood elf lamented. But then he drew himself taller, pulling his hand away from her shoulder. "Did you see this scenario in your mirror?"

"Did you?" she asked back, snugging her hand about his waist tighter, for she knew that despite his recalcitrance, he needed her support. "There is no certain outcome in anything the mirror shows."

He stumbled slightly, leaning harder into her. As if aware his weakness, his voice softened. Yet he argued. "Why not? Why can it not tell what is to happen so we might know how to heal him?"

"Or if he can be healed?" she queried, stopping him to look squarely into his eyes. He drew back, dropping his gaze, and she tilted her head to watch him from the corner of her eye as they began again. Carefully she asked, "Do you sense his bond to you yet?"

Thranduil raised a hand to his brow and she saw dark circles shadowed his eyes. She was reminded that it had been a very long day and that there had been no sleep the night before. But he nodded, conceding, "I feel it. It is weak and I am yet unsure he would want me, but I feel it."

"That will have to suffice for now," she said.

"I am not satisfied with that," he growled. Again he tried to loosen her support on him by pulling himself taller. "My son almost died today, and he may yet. I would know what I can to try to safeguard him from that. I have the Ring. Might I use the mirror to see what outcome we face?"

"You may not," she answered defiantly, releasing her hold of him at last and quickening her pace to match his. "I say this for many reasons. First and foremost, even if you could know, it would not save him. What we see in the waters stem from the actions that preceded them, not from a determined point that we can say _yea_ or _nay_ to. What is set in motion will bring its own outcome and we cannot control everything. So little can be changed once those wheels are moving. Further, Nenya was crafted for good, but It may do evil if It is abused. I will take It away from you before I would allow that to happen."

She watched him as he marched a step or two ahead of her, and she could tell nothing from the stoic resolve of his back. She went on. "The Ring was not given to you for the purpose of foresight."

"Clearly so if I may not use it to guard against the harms that may come to me and my people," he snapped, the hand bearing the Ring curling and uncurling into a fist.

"Clearly," she agreed and then said nothing else so as to punctuate her point. She knew he was exhausted and wary of what might come, but she knew she must keep a sharp eye on him lest he act frivolously in his ownership of the Ring. She began to doubt her decision.

They did not speak as they continued the rest of the way down the hill. They did what they could to avoid the muddy tracts and Thranduil, fatigued as he was, did not stumble again. As they neared the new camp, she saw that the others in their command had noted the ground as well and re-erected the tents so they now stood on higher ground, away from the overflowing river.

She saw fires were built and kettles were steaming, and at the center of the camp, a flurry of activity was brewing about one tent. Elves entered and left in quick succession, handfuls of satchels and soiled linens being toted with each ingress and egress. She and Thranduil made their way there, and the gruff voice of Gimli greeted them as they came near.

Yet he was not pleased. "You will do no such thing! You may as well put a knife through his heart! I forbid you!" the dwarf's voice rang out, and Galadriel quickened her steps while Thranduil raced ahead of her.

Just then Gimli exited the tent with Gilfonel following behind. The healer seemed to heed the dwarf's exclamation little, for his face was resolute. He said, "It is not yours to decide. I will speak with his father and the lady on this."

But Gimli would not be daunted. He protested, his hands on hips, his chest puffed out. "It is as much mine to decide as it is theirs, for I know his mind. I will stand before you to hinder any knifework you might do unto him, as he would for me. You will not cut him, I say!"

"What goes here?" Thranduil asked as he came upon them.

Gimli looked up at the elf king with eyes that were fierce, gazing then at the healer as if he were a demon, then again at the king. "He says he will cut off Legolas's leg!"

"His leg?" Thranduil repeated, shock in his voice.

"It does not please me, my lord, but I see little choice," Gilfonel explained. "The infection is severe."

"No. No, you will not do this!" Gimli firmly argued. "For all he has endured, Legolas is near death enough. This will just push him beyond endurance!"

And Galadriel had to agree, for knowing the frail state of Legolas's heart even before he had come to the forest of Fangorn, she recognized he already teetered on the brink of despair.

"He is so weak," Thranduil gasped, taking up the cause. "How could he survive this?"

"With your help, the _feäglaur_, I think we can get him through the surgery," Gilfonel said.

But Thranduil looked up, horror in his eyes. "That is not what I mean. He is a warrior. Losing a limb would be devastating. He has already suffered so much."

Gilfonel seemed sympathetic. He placed a consoling hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "If he lives through the surgery, perhaps, through your healing light, you can convince him to take the Straight Road to the sea. He can be healed fully there."

But the healer immediately drew back when he saw the fiery rage that erupted with those words. "You mean to say I should manipulate him into such a decision? No! No! You know nothing of my son! For if you did, you would know his life has been devoted to protecting his kingdom. He would not easily retire his commission or settle into a placid life, or go over sea, or do anything of meager resolve that I might offer him. And I will not offer it to him. If he chooses, it would be by his will alone. But he will have no will if a limb is taken from him! It is too much. He must move! He must be free! For otherwise he will die of the heartbreak that comes of a staid life! I would rather see him dead of his natural wounds then let you kill him with the stroke of your surgeon's knife!"

And with that Thranduil pushed past him and into the tent. Gimli followed immediately and Galadriel began to pursue. But Gilfonel put out his hand, touching her lightly upon the shoulder. "My lady," he began.

She straightened and looked at his earnest expression. She knew he was offering the best he knew to give, for the healer had experience in the field and working with the afflictions of the soldier. This was not the first time he had given such advice. His own son had been a warrior knight who had lost an arm in an orc attack. The young elf had not survived the diminishment that came in his recovery; he had faded. Yet she knew if Gilfonel were to be faced with the choice laid before Thranduil now, he would choose to lob off the limb. Legolas's chances of survival were greater with the poisoned leg removed and Gilfonel's method was one of looking for the most immediate solution and facing the consequences of that solution later. The wound must be truly bad.

"Can you try?" he asked her, meaning that she should speak on his behalf and that of Legolas, who she saw he was trying to save.

"Let us see what may be done," she replied, moving forward and dipping her head so as to enter the tent.

An amber glow filled the tent from the rays of the sun that shone down on it, the last light of the day. But with night coming, and the care needed by the attending healer and aids, lamps were set about the center table. This was the surgery tent and there lay the body. Many hands, all at work cleaning the filth from Legolas's slight body, inspecting the raw wounds, tended him. She could see whole flesh tones now, and with them the bruises that marred the elf's ribs, torso, arms. Legolas's breathing came in short pants, and though not conscious of the world, he was clearly distressed. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his head weakly rocked side to side in fevered dreams. His mouth twisted as he squeezed his eyes tighter. A feeble cry was sobbed out though all were gentle in touching him.

The leg, she saw, was covered over with a sheet, but yet propped and clearly cushioned to keep it from being jarred. She dared reach out to pull the cloth aside and saw the horrible wound. Flesh decayed and blackened encircled a deep fissure of hewed muscle. She could see the white of bone deep in the cavity of maroon flesh, splinters of bark and twig embedded, and she realized why Gilfonel had felt taking the leg would be best. Even should they save it, the muscles would not knit, for some were sheared clear through by the decay that had already devoured them.

Yet Thranduil's eyes were pleading as he held his son's hand. He brushed Legolas's brow, hushing away the winces the young elf mustered as he was washed and touched. She knew she could not ask the elf king to forfeit his son's leg. Yet she also knew that if they did nothing else, Legolas would die from the wound.

**TBC**

**A/N:** Give credit to Ziggy3 for pushing this chapter on. In private communications, she has been very encouraging to me and I'm not sure I'd be going on without her. In truth, I was really depressed after the response to the last chapter (which is to say there was very little, almost none). I know I'm guilty of not reviewing every story I read, but I try to give reviews to the stories I like and want to see continued. I really wish others would do the same. There is no other payment an author gets, and if the reviews stop, one loses heart and just stops writing. Please feed the muse if you want to see this story to continue to its end. I need not put my energies into it if no one is really reading or enjoying it. - Anarithilien

**Translations  
**_Feä _or_ feär – spirit _or_ spirits_

_Cuivëar – sea-longing: _a word I contrived for my story arc; this is an affliction that can kill if ignored – all elves who have been touched by cuivëar must eventually go off to the Undying Lands or else relinquish themselves to fading (dying). The stress their longing places on their hearts is simply too much for them to bear.

_Erthad a hun - union of the heart: _the elven equivalent of marriage vows, only in their case, souls are shared rather than rings.

_Feäglaur – spirit light: _a succoring technique whereby energy from one elf is transferred to another, though it's more a spiritual healing than physical.


	61. The Tented Room

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty: The Tented Room_

It all seemed familiar, as if he had been here before. But his mind was too befuddled to remember where, when such a thing had happened.

He was in pain. That he knew.

And the sea was calling him.

It had been such a long time since he had heard it and the siren song was both alluring and frightening. He wanted to flee, only he was immobilized by both the pain and weakness.

He had no strength. There was an empty place in the middle of his chest where his heart should have been and he knew there was someone who was supposed to be with him, but all answers were absent. Everything was wrong, that was all he could discern.

Was this madness? Was this death?

His head was swimming. He felt so confused. He shouldn't be here… But where was here? He belonged with…

The sea.

Its voice sang out to him, and he was drawn toward it, wanting. He had been wanting… Yes. But it had not been the sea before. Who…?

The world rolled in a dizzying spin. Nausea. His head. The ache in his chest… in his soul… in his body … was immense. And there were hands, touching him. Phantom touches… unasked for, violating… Make them stop! A hand touched him and he flayed out at it, pleased because he had connected the blow.

He was quaking. Pain, fear, cold, fever. He could not decide what he felt. He simply wanted to go back to where he had been. …

Voices were all around him, but he couldn't make sense of what they said "...make him understand..." The words seemed so far away. So meaningless.

A hand pressed him down. "...lay still..."

He felt such misery. Despair rang loud in his soul and the gulf in the middle of his chest seemed to widen. It hurt. Such pain. He wanted it to end. And the sea seemed to call him… The song. It would be so easy to follow the sound… So easy… It drew him. He should just surrender to it… that would be so easy.

He was floating, drifting on the crest of a wave. The pain beckoned him but he relaxed into the sea's soothing song, accepting it. It gnawed at his consciousness, the ache, but he was also hovering on the surface of the water. It carried him away and he recalled feeling this before, that if he just relinquished, he could go to a place where there was no more pain… no pain… no pain.

But suddenly the water drew away, laying him to the ground. He could see the tide lapping to either side of him and knew the welling surf was only momentarily waylaid. It confused him, and he was frightened. Would the pain not return? A vision swam before his eyes. Russet hair. Golden eyes… Faeldaer. Yes! That was it! Faeldaer… my love! He tried to reach out to him, wanting, needing, but the vision faded the moment he connected the name to his desire. Faeldaer? Where had he gone?

Another was there instead, leaning over him and he felt his fingers twitch under the soothing touch. He tried to draw his hands to his heart, but he couldn't move. A sob came to his lips… "Faeldaer." No, he did not want this other; he wanted Faeldaer.

"No, my son," the other whispered, leaning low, brushing a hand over his brow.

He ignored the contact, for perhaps this other person would help him if he allowed the touch. "Where is he?" he tried to ask, and his eyes sought the speaker. Vaguely he made out the face, thinking he might look familiar… Father? Somehow he thought that should bother him, but he couldn't remember why. "Help me find him, please," he started to say, but his emotions came upon him hard then, and he knew he was crying. Gratefully, he was sure none of this was real. It all felt unreal to him, like a dream.

But there was the ache of emotion! In his chest! In his head! Oh, it was horrible, the anguish, the despair! Faeldaer! Please! He wanted Faeldaer…

And then he found himself floating again, only this time it was not the sea that carried him. Energy filled his soul. Light filled his vision. Somehow he felt stronger, calm reaching him, the lightness of knowing it could all be healed, easing the ache. He drifted there, content. He felt like it had been a long while since he had known such a thing… He could hover there… comfortable… satisfied…

Pain! Fire hot! Horrible! This was not the ache of his heart but physical. Torture!

"No!" he cried, arching back, confused and mired in sudden hurt.

Someone else was now with him, whispering to him, trying to calm him. The voice was familiar, like that of one he once knew.

"Help me, Gimli," he cried, not knowing why those words came but realizing they were true the moment he uttered them. Gimli! Was he not dead? Had he not mourned him? It was wrong, strange, but he could not untangle the knot for the pain was too great.

He gasped, moaned. Why was this happening to him? It seemed interminable, the agony, but then it was done, and he lapsed into helpless weakness.

He was once more still, left alone, floating in listlessness, the sound of the sea droning in his ears. But ahead of him he saw a figure. The outline of that form was all he could make out, white light shining from behind, shadow concealing all else before it. It was calling him. He could not turn away. The sea sang and the figure beckoned. The light was blinding but he could not stop looking at it as it obliterated all else. And simultaneously the shadow was there, and its darkness was so deep that it felt as if he was being swallowed by it. And the song… the rolling sough of waves rising and falling, like breath, like the rocking motion of a tree, like sway of a mother comforting her babe.

And then the light filled his mind and he wondered if this was death, for he was blind to all sight, all feeling, and yet he was still, feeling nothing. But a moment later the tendrils of the dark touched him, and he felt them wrapping around his heart, choking it off in an unyielding fist, creating pain that was reminiscent once more of the empty hurt he had felt. But the sea reeled in, and he found himself floating on the current of its song.

He lost track of all thought then as he bounded between these points, and each time he slid toward one, he found himself lost there, completely, utterly. And for this he knew he had entered madness, or was it death, for the world was no world, and he had no recollection of what should be right and what was wrong.

xxxxx

"Lord Thranduil, wake! It happens again! He needs you!"

Thranduil bolted into wakefulness immediately, feeling the shooting pain in his ribs as he made this quick move. He gasped, hugging a hand round his middle while recollection came back to him. It seemed he had barely taken a moment's rest. The night was yet deep though he had evoked the life-saving measure of _feäglaur _numerous times in these late hours. One might think this was helping, but the previous attempts seemed to have done little to restore Legolas and Thranduil was growing fearful that Legolas was fading even with his ministrations.

The Mirkwood king arose awkwardly, an aide helping him to stand. He feebly accepted the proffered hand, stumbling slightly as he made way to the pale figure that took up the center bed in the tent. Legolas looked shrunken and wan, even under the yellow glow of the lamplight, his bruises darkening to ugly shades of plum and maroon. His son had not looked so bad when he had last gazed upon him, or so he had thought. When he had granted himself permission to take some rest upon one of the spare cots in the tent, Legolas had seemed more whole, like his flesh had taken on sustenance and vigor. And although the fevered sheen had still dampened his brow then, it brought color into the young elf's cheeks. Now Legolas looked like a shadow.

"How long has it been since we last did this?" he asked the aide in a whisper, finding he had little energy for voice.

"Not even an hour, my lord," the aide replied, frowning.

Thranduil's hands trembled as he placed them once more upon Legolas's chest, but he cared little for his own health. He noted the cool touch of his Legolas's skin and frowned. He preferred the fever. At least then it was clear a war was raging within his son's body. But with the loss of heat, he knew his son fought no more. The elf was dying. _He is fading,_ he thought, _and I am witness to it. _He choked off a cry of despair and pushed his shoulders back. He would not give in yet. Legolas could rebound. He would!

Pressing a hand lightly to Legolas's chest once more, he was surprised when an arm struck out, landing a glancing blow across his cheek. He stumbled back, caught by the aide who murmured in concern, "Are you hurt?"

The parry was weak and uncoordinated, barely making its target, and Thranduil was not harmed. "Nay," he laughed, rubbing his hand over the offended cheek and taking encouragement. "I am glad to see he still has fight in him."

"I am not sure there is a way to make him understand what it is we try to do," the aid replied.

"Understanding or not, I am happy in knowing he has strength enough yet to throw a punch at those he thinks may harm him," Thranduil said, using that bit of encouragement to enervate him. Then once more he placed his hands upon his son's chest. He cooed a hush as he said, "Do not fight me. I try to help. Lie still now. I will not hurt you in this."

And once more he pushed light into his son's body.

He immediately heard the sigh that fell from his son's mouth, felt the needy pull on his energy. He likened it to the hungry suckling of a newborn. It gladdened him to give, but he soon felt his son's draw on the strength he offered slackening, as if in rejection, a turning away. This had happened before, and he nearly cried out. This was why _feäglaur _had to be given so often.

But he knew it was not the need that tore Legolas away; it was the song of the sea, the _cuivëar_, and he fought to maintain control for what he knew was to come. And then it was there, in his head and his heart. It undermined his focus. His thoughts were swept away as he spilled his energy out into nothing. He lost track of the moment and he yearned with all his heart to be elsewhere, far away, lulled by its soothing sound. It was like it resided there in that body and it was pulling him in.

He fought. The corner of his cognizance worked to wrench him away from the oblivion of the sea. And he knew that was what was keeping him from fully strengthening his son. The energy yet spilled from him, _feäglaur_ wasted, but he pushed once more.

This time something new happened - he swept away the song! It felt like a roar of contained ferocity overtook him, and he pushed, pushed the sea back. _At last! At last!_ And rather than feeling the saturating drag on his heart, he suddenly felt free. But it was there, the sea, lapping at the edges of his perceptions, and he could not halt it entirely. Still, there was a lapse and he would use it while he could. He found he could sense his son, their bond. It was in that space.

He drew his hands back slightly, halting the healing momentarily. He was startled by the appearance of this new spirit entrance but knew it remained, for he could feel the bond in his own heart. He opened his eyes, surprised to find Legolas staring up at him. But the young elf's gaze was unfocused, unconnected, as if he was seeing something past Thranduil's right shoulder. "Faeldaer?" he asked, his voice barely there, no more than a whisper.

"No, my son," Thranduil whispered, leaning low, brushing a hand over the elf's brow.

"…Where…?" Legolas whispered, his voice cracking, his glassy eyes drifting to meet Thranduil's. "Help me…find…," he then pleaded, his mouth turned down mournfully, and Thranduil felt his throat constricting with the heartbreak that resounded in that request, that small cry.

He had not the heart to deny the plea. Instead he soothed, nodding and softly saying, "Yes, we will try." He lightly touched Legolas once more, drawing hands to his heart, knowing if he was to do this it must be now. And once more he poured _feäglaur_ into his son.

At the healing ministration, Legolas took in a deep breath, his eyes rolling back. And then the lids drooped closed, sealing off his sight. But he took the full of what Thranduil offered in _feäglaur,_ and Thranduil realized now it was truly for the first time. Warmth crept into his skin, heat infused from living light he pressed into the body, and Thranduil was assured then he had done some good. Legolas seemed to fall into sleep then and the elf king smiled.

Still, he could sense the pervading weakness that lived in his son. It was created out of illness and a hurting heart, and his knowledge was clear that this would not be enough. The truth would be an agony, and it was clear the present moment was not the time to give it. They must heal the bodily wounds first before they tackled the wounds inflicted upon his son's mind and heart.

Foremost though, the sea longing must be dealt with, for it put a barrier up to cogent skills, and so long as it was there, Legolas could not be reached whether truth was told him or lies.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder and he turned. Galadriel was there. He said nothing as their eyes met, and he allowed her to bring her hand about his waist so as to support him, leading him back to his cot. He fell upon it heavily, and found himself falling back, lying down without thinking, heedless of the jarring pain he felt in his ribs. She smiled tenderly, her eyes never leaving his, and then he felt her touch his hand, resting it near where Nenya occupied his finger. He felt light pour into his soul then, and it was as if he floated on the breath of air for a moment. Revived, he knew what she gave was enough to sustain him until he could gain strength on his own. He felt his head roll to the side, the fatigue making it heavy.

Still, he aired his thoughts before surrendering fully to the rest he sorely needed. "The sea," he said, turning his head and gazing up into her ringed eyes. She looked exhausted as well, and he knew their treatments were taking their toll on them both. She looked worn like he had never seen her before. But her strength still held.

"I know," she answered.

"If it was not there, I think could reach him. It is so hard to break past it," he said, the words pouring out of him as if he was making a confession.

She nodded, her smile weak, but there was anguish in her eyes. She did not have a solution and he could see it hurt her too to know they were losing Legolas in this.

But thinking it might help, he said, "I found him this time. It was brief, but I think I helped. The sea… I managed my way past it. If only I could do that every time."

She squeezed his hand, assuring him. "Perhaps what you did will give him strength to make it easier next time."

He closed his eyes, nodding, but he recognized the resignation in her voice. They were failing. They had been at this all night, Legolas's diminishment becoming more prominent with each failed ministration of _feäglaur_. The sea was drawing him and the heartbreak that came between bouts of the longing only added to his weakness. The decision to keep his leg just put Thranduil in more doubt. At least with it gone he would know it was not that that contributed to his son's weakened state.

Yet it was all of these miseries together that sickened Legolas. He knew that. Thranduil assured himself that nothing healing would come if they took the limb. In the end it would just add to the burden of his son's heart, which was already stricken enough. Like his decision to hide the truth of Faeldaer, Thranduil felt certain the hurts they worked with must be defeated each on their own.

Besides, he knew the truth even if he dared not speak it. Legolas would die of his shattered heart before the leg took him. He told himself this as he drifted back into reverie. As if that might console him. He felt tears stream down his cheeks as he fell into the sleep his body so desired, too tired to find an optimistic note to fall back on and muster once more his resolve to save and heal. He would sleep, and perhaps in that he could find the strength to repeat this, to repeal the illness -and do even more. He needed sleep.

xxxxx

Gimli watched from the shadowed corners of the spacious tent. Like the others, he had taken up residence there, saving the few cots there were for those in greater need and opting instead to use a bedroll unfurled at the perimeter of the room so as not to be a bother to any present. He needed no tending.

He dared not interfere with the ministrations being offered his friend, but he also refused to leave the tent. He knew Legolas's situation was grim, and he would be near through all, no matter how bad it got. If Legolas was dying, he would be present until that end came.

He watched as Thranduil was led back to his pallet by Galadriel, the elf king obviously too exhausted to even offer objection. She sat at his side, laying one hand to his hand, the other to his brow. This seemed a gesture of assurance and soothing and Gimli was moved by it. She had been tender in her aid to the king, coming to him each time he had offered healing '_feäglaur'_ – that was what he had heard it being called. Gimli did not even pretend to understand what the elven term meant, he just knew that Legolas breathed a little easier each time it was given. Still, it did not seem to last long. At best it had been a few hours between ministrations. At worst it had been mere minutes. Understanding of what it meant or not, he worried that the short spans meant that, whatever this treatment was, it was not working. It seemed there was concurrence in this as all in attendance seemed bothered that there were no greater improvement for the young elf.

And that confused him, and he frowned. It was not for the first time this evening that his thoughts turned this way. Had they not gazed into the mirror and seen a different tale? He could recall no scenes of death and dying quite like this, and it angered him more each time he thought about it. He felt almost as if he had been lied to. Had they not come to believe that if they could rescue Legolas from the clutches of Sauron that his friend would be saved? That was what he had come to believe!

Gimli thought now about the images he had observed, and in each scene he had seen something that opposed what played out here. He understood that none of them shared the exact same image, but none had seen Legolas like this, he was certain. They had all confessed that what they witnessed was the elf either dying in the battle scene, Legolas surviving to become an incarnation of Sauron, or Legolas surviving to live a fuller life, a grey ship somewhere in his future. And since one of those scenarios had already played out to be wrong - the one revealing certain death - Gimli felt confident that Legolas was meant to live, somehow, as the mirror had told it. But here, in this reality, that did not seem to be quite so obvious.

He felt gypped, wronged. He tried to assuage his anger by telling himself it might be they were not supposed to know the outcome truly. And Galadriel had said the visions in the mirror were just projections of the moment, that things could change and nothing was fully certain. Had the mirror seen the broken spirit his friend would suffer? It might be that it had but it just had not shown the end that he, or any of them, could understand.

Yet it did not help. He wanted what he had believed in.

He sighed, shaking his head, feeling guilt pervading his emotions. Everything that was happening was his fault. He knew this and let that thought surround him for a moment of self-inflicted anguish. From the start of this very adventure, Legolas had been in despair. And yet Gimli had let done nothing to hinder his friend from following this path of melancholy discovery. Like watching one take a knife to their own throat, Gimli had allowed Legolas to come to this forest, follow a road even Legolas did not understand, and then be led into a haunted wood that clearly bore hostility toward them. He had been a fool! And then worse, he had allowed Legolas to go off in pursuit of Greywood, antagonizing the Ent's clear madness and provoking the attack that came. Perhaps if he had not been hurt… Perhaps if they could have fled together… But no, that had not come, and the situation had been worsened by Gimli's inability to recover sooner. He had slowed their ability to come to Legolas's aid. It was his fault Legolas had suffered this outcome!

But then he shook his head once more, as if doing so could scatter these miring thoughts. He could not fix the past. He could only look to the present to do what he might. Yet if he could look into the future… Once more he considered what would come if Galadriel, or even Thranduil, would just peer again into the mirror.

He watched as the healer drew to the table in the middle of the room, lightly surveying his friend. Gilfonel did not look happy, and the dwarf assumed he was not satisfied with Legolas's condition. There was no doubt he wished they would grant him permission to remove the leg, but that was not going to happen so long as Gimli was about. Although the dwarf did not understand _feäglaur_, he had seen enough in his own life to understand the effect of a maimed limb. In his mind the injured leg was driving part of this failure to thrive. He knew he was more concerned with it than it seemed either Thranduil or Galadriel were. That surprised him, for Thranduil had rallied hard in defense of keeping the limb. Once the decision had been made though, the elf seemed to push aside any wariness in this regard and had focused instead on what he and Galadriel deemed was healing to the heart. For this, it seemed Gimli shared more a kinship with the healer than Legolas's father, for at least the healer devoted attention to the leg wound.

As Gilfonel drew away, Gimli stood and walked into the light that pooled around his dear friend. Thranduil was already drifting off into a healing reverie, and Galadriel, sitting at his side on the low bunk, had bowed her head, not noticing the dwarf. He could see dark circles under her eyes, and to the dwarf she seemed somewhat dimmed in spirit, or light, or something he could not quite identify. He wondered if he should worry for her too, but he decided she was a queen and therefore would be well-tended. She had not suffered as Legolas had, certainly, and she would be fine with a little rest of her own, he decided.

He regarded his friend then, noting the paleness of Legolas's skin. It seemed a near shade to that of the bedding, and it seemed almost that the elf faded into the blandness of these lacking colors. It was only the blue shadows of bruises and illness that gave him form, and Gimli thought sadly that the illness defined him. Legolas's breath was shallow, slightly shaken, and his mouth was slightly ajar, as if by some unconscious means Legolas knew to mouth-breathe was to draw more to live on. Looking down, Gimli saw the leg was packed in a poultice, and the dwarf had been watching intently as these were applied. They were replaced often, steam billowing up from each new cloth that was laid there. It was clear Legolas was not comforted in this, as he cried out each time they came.

Gilfonel drew forth again with a tray bearing a steaming bowl. It was time again. He dared to glance at the dwarf, as if in warning to stand back, but this was where Gimli could offer help as he had several times already. Gimli made it a point to hold his friend's hand through the agony of this treatment.

The healer placed the tray on the table next to the lower end of the bed. An aid stood nearby, also carrying a tray. But this one was empty and Gimli knew it was to be used for the tainted linens that would come in the changing of the dressings. He watched as Legolas's leg was carefully unwrapped, and then the cloth that lay atop the gash was gently lifted. Purple flesh, dusky with raw skin, glowed brightly under the glare of the lights. The medicinal pouch atop the wound was brown where the herbs had saturated the cloth, the transparency of the fabric revealing leaves and crushed flowers withing. Gilfonel gently pulled it aside, barely touching it with his instruments, his precision exact.

Looking at the newly exposed wound, the effect of the steam and herbs was visible to any in the area to observe. The injury, now cleaned and flushed of all debris, was garish in its vibrant color. Both Thranduil and Gimli had conceded at least to cutting out the clearly dead tissue, and the bared muscle was exposed now. Gimli sickened at the thought of the surgery that had been performed. Brown, yellow, green and black, there had been little in that wound that had resembled flesh. Clearly Gilfonel had been unhappy with how little he had been allowed to remove, but in Gimli's mind it was more than sufficient. The gaping hole in Legolas's leg was huge, the size of a fist, and should he recover and gain use of his legs, Gimli doubted he would ever walk properly, for he could not imagine how the muscle would ever knit correctly. But that was the trade they had made… made all the more contingent upon whether Legolas would even live.

The healer then prodded the leg, very gently kneading the flesh surrounding the wound. Legolas cried out sharply, flinching, his eyes never opening but clearly alarmed by the torment of the physician's touches. "No!" he voiced in a whispered sob, his face twisted into a pained grimace, his head falling away to his side, breath coming in sudden pants and quaking gasps.

Gimli took his friend's hand then and clutched it in his own, squeezing so as to let the elf know he could squeeze back if it helped. He began uttering words of commiseration, hushed sounds that were meaningless except to convey his sympathy for his friend's plight.

"Help me, Gimli," Legolas cried, and the dwarf startled, not imagining the elf would realize he was present.

He quickly recovered himself, pulling Legolas's hand to his chest as he leaned low. "I know. It is almost done. I am here. Hold to me," he murmured.

The elf turned his head side to side, grunting out his hurt, tears running down his cheeks, his breath running quick. Gimli knew he was unaware of his show of pain, for Legolas was normally stoic in displaying discomforts. He almost always wore a brave face, and Gimli recalled how even in their most intimate moments of truth telling, Legolas had been wary of showing he could be hurt. He would be ashamed of his cries now, his tears. But there was no shame as far as Gimli was concerned. He knew the healer tried to milk infection from the wound, the poultice doing what it could to pull the poison from his body while the manipulations were the best that could be ventured otherwise. The dwarf knew he would cry too if such tortures were put upon him. But it was what must be done.

With one last squeeze, Gilfonel nodded, satisfied it seemed. With fresh linens he swabbed out the wound, drawing away cloth that was blotted with blood and yellow pus. The stench of rot rose in the air. His aide handed him a small ewer then, and he poured it over the wound, washing away what was left of the toxins and clotted blood. And then he lifted away the remains of the soiled linens, careful to jar Legolas no more. He was delicate in his touch, and Legolas seemed to calm. Gilfonel then took a new cloth, one smelling of lavender and filled with the dried herbs, and he laid it atop the injured flesh. He lifted a steaming cloth from the bowl and draped it over the newly dressed gash, flinching back when Legolas bucked the heat. He pressed lightly upon the dressing, letting the wetness of the cloth seep into the herbs. Legolas settled, seeming to find soothe in the softening heat. Gilfonel continued the wrapping until the leg was once more embedded in layers of clean linens as Gimli brushed his hand over his friend's brow.

And he found there were tears in his eyes. He brushed them away, telling himself it was trying to see his friend in such pain, and he should cry, for he had brought this upon the elf.

He realized then that someone stood at his side and he gazed up into the face of Celeborn. Looking up into the light, it seemed the elf lord almost donned a star upon his brow, but when Gimli blinked it was gone, and so he turned his eyes back to his friend. Celeborn rested a hand to Legolas's cheek, but his next words were not for the Mirkwood elf.

"Your hands tremble," he said, and Gimli saw it to be true. There was a slight agitation in his hand as it rested on Legolas's brow. He saw once more that the Dwarfstone Ring had made it to his finger, but he decided not to fight It. He was tired of fighting It. It had served them well and so might he not think Its purpose good?

He pulled his hand away but excused himself nonetheless. "I have good reason to fear," he said brusquely, nodding to the pale figure before him.

Celeborn frowned and then turned about, taking in those that peopled the tent. He nodded to Gilfonel, who cleared his tools and made away to a table where healing herbs, potions and bandages were laid out. Celeborn then tilted his head as he peered into the shadows, seeing his wife. He walked over to where Galadriel sat on the edge of Thranduil's cot. She seemed lost in reverie, and he lightly lifted her, stirring her back to wakefulness in so doing, and led her back to her own cot. He then came back to the center bed where Legolas lay.

And through this all, Gimli berated himself for the troubles shown, guilt eating him for what he had created through his ineptitude. With nothing more he could say but what was obvious to him, Gimli lamented. "I would that the mirror had shown the outcome would be this."

"The mirror is not an accurate tool," Celeborn sighed, resting a hand lightly at Legolas's cheek.

"Why bother with it then if it cannot help," Gimli groused, his hands tightening into fists, his anger more at himself than the elf lord. He loosened them then, noticing the tension, the fear. He took up the edge of the blanket covering his friend and played with it then, absently running his fingers over the hem.

"But did the mirror not help?" Celeborn argued, bringing his attention back to the moment. "Did it not tell us where Legolas would be placed, how we could manipulate Thranduil into better position so as to get to his son, the intentions of Sauron, how we might defeat those plans? Our plan was devised because the mirror gave us foresight that we might defeat our enemy."

"It did. But I don't recall this scene in the mirror. Do you? I don't remember seeing him dying like this," the dwarf said, his voice choking on the last words, and he found he could not look up for fear of the elf lord seeing the tears coming to his eyes or somehow knowing about the lump he felt in his throat.

"Actions lead to new directions. Fates are altered. The mirror cannot show everything," he heard Celeborn say.

"It showed him alive!" Gimli asserted, trying to keep his voice low though his fury was growing. He looked up at the elf lord then, his anger driving him past his concerns for his show of pain, past the tears that blurred his vision. "It did not show him dying like this! We are missing something!" And then he voiced the thing he had refrained from saying. It was not his to command but he could still offer his thoughts. "I think we should use the Nimrodel water again."

Celeborn's head tipped back, but it did not seem he was startled by the outburst. Instead something of thoughtfulness raised his brow, and he leaned back on his heels as if an idea was stirring in his mind. But then he blinked and looked down on the dwarf. "You should get some air and clear your head, I think. The stars shine. Perhaps their light will brighten your spirits. I will stand over Legolas in your stead," he offered.

"Nothing will lift me until he draws nearer to health. I fear he will slip away should I leave his side. Or that a healer will lob off his leg should I stray too far," he added, glaring then at Gilfonel in the darkened side of the tent.

"He is safe for now," Celeborn said as he gained the healer's eye and there was a look shared between them, a quiet conspiring. "We are all exhausted and must find respite in whatever way we can."

"He needs me," Gimli protested.

"He needs you whole. It was not so long ago that you were as he is now, injured and unconscious," the elf lord reminded.

Gimli blinked. He was right. It had just been mere days since he had risen from his own sick bed. Yet now he felt hale, whole. It was true he felt fatigued, but it was the weariness that came of anguish and stress that mired him, not that of physical duress. And that was odd, for Gimli, under any normal circumstances, should have been exhausted.

He looked down at the Ring and wondered if It was responsible for his improved health and guessed it so. But he shrugged, more as a gesture toward Celeborn's comment than that of this discovery. He need not explain that he was well; that would be obvious. Instead he sought meaning in the elf lord's words; was it that Celeborn just wanted to be rid of him? It was not something he might readily consider, but suddenly it seemed an easy explanation for Celeborn's ignorance of his suggestion. That thought stoked his ire. "I can manage myself without your concerns," he grumbled.

The elf lord dropped his gaze down to the unconscious elf. He said nothing, but Gimli drew the message from his gesture: _you are rattled and that will not help Legolas_. Conflicted, the dwarf turned on his heel, deciding to accept the suggestion that he 'get some air.' Behind him he thought he heard Celeborn breathe a sigh of relief.

"I will call you should anything change," the elf said to his parting back.

Gimli's ire suddenly piqued and he could not still his tongue. "We are missing something, Celeborn. There is a way to help him; we are just not seeing it." He knew he was angry, but he was pleased that he had spoken without hint of it. He glanced back to see the elf lord staring at him, and then he turned. With a dramatic wave of his arm, he pushed past the flap and exited the tent. He would acquiesce, but he would not do so without voicing his thoughts, and he was glad he spoke. Legolas was ill, and elven healing or not, he was in dire condition. Gimli could not bear the thought of his dying for it would only affirm the real truth of the matter; he had not been strong enough to help his friend. The deed was done, but the pang from his heart felt new, fresh. He would undo his wrong if he could. Maybe beyond the curtains of the tented room he would find their answer.

**TBC**

**Translations  
**_Feäglaur – spirit light: _a succoring technique whereby energy from one elf is transferred to another, though it's more a spiritual healing than physical.

_Cuivëar – sea-longing: _a word I contrived for my story arc; this is an affliction that can kill if ignored – all elves who have been touched by cuivëar must eventually go off to the Undying Lands or else relinquish themselves to fading (dying). The stress their longing places on their hearts is simply too much for them to bear.

**A/N:** I would like to deliver a heartfelt thank you to everyone who sent me a review after the last chapter. Your words were such a balm to my hurting ego, and I feel renewed because of you. Of course, that will not keep me from asking for your encouragement again should hits and reviews be lackluster sometime in the future again. But if you keep it coming I know I can keep going with this story; I won't need to make threats of departure. I'm really not that greedy that I need a wordy reply though; even a two word review has impact. So feed me, and I promise I will keep feeding you.


	62. These Many Wounds

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-One: These Many Wounds_

The fresh scent of the outside world was like a balm, and Gimli inhaled deeply the instant he found himself outside the curtain door. The smell of newly turned soil, even on the cool breeze of the coming winter, wafted on the wind. The circumstances for that turn were not kind, but the smell was welcomed. As a dwarf, fresh earth always smelled like a beginning place. He closed his eyes and breathed it in deeply, knowing indeed that it helped.

It took but a minute for his eyes to adjust to the moonless night. His breath misted before his eyes, a cloud of grey in what was otherwise complete darkness. They were at the hours just before the world came to wakefulness. Yet Treebeard was not still, nor was the forest, and he turned to the lumbering rumbles and murmurs, like the creaks and groans of a great ship. He saw the Ent leader standing on the rise of the slope and imagined what he might have looked like a day earlier when the forest had appeared much at odds to this. Treebeard pointed and directed and Gimli saw a group of Huorns move to the lowlands, switching out for another band of the tree guardians. They encircled a copse of varying types of wood, including one of the willows Gimli had seen from the island lake. The trees that were guarded swayed as if in agitation as the change came but none uprooted themselves. All stayed where they were kept.

Gimli watched then as Treebeard tracked over to a separate holding area, and he recognized that Greywood was kept there, alone, stalking the perimeter of his pen. The area was demarked by a series of boulders and guarded further on by several Ents. _No Huorn watchguards for him_, Gimli thought. Curiosity got the better of him and he too walked over to the hillside where Greywood was kept.

As he came closer he realized the Ent did not walk the pen but was instead pacing an area of ground, stopping from time to time, kicking a foot into earth, and then backing away, and resuming his march. Gimli followed with his eyes, confused by the Ent's actions. It was the same path over and over again and Greywood repeated the ritual, stomping his foot at the exact same point each time. Furthering his confusion, he recognized that the Ent was speaking, muttering, murmuring some rolling set of words in his low, slow language. The hard sound of clipped letters denoted phrase or word, but otherwise Gimli could detect no meaning in what he said. Yet if he had to put a term to what he witnessed, he would say it evoked a sense of ritual, like the repetition of a meditative prayer, a mantra.

Treebeard, seeming to notice him, came to stand nearby. He rumbled a greeting that almost seemed too long to be a simple "Good evening," but that indeed is what the Ent said. He then settled himself by digging feet into the earth. And then Gimli felt that settling, as if _he_ had been touched in the Ent's movement. He almost laughed then, for he had not noticed the bigness of this before. Gimli could sense Treebeard's roots!

He knew immediately that it was the Ring giving him the power to know this, and rather than being frightened by it, he felt comforted somehow, as if knowing the place of things in conjunction to the earth was something he always had been able to do. The smells, the darkness, the grinding sound of wood under pressure… Gimli imagined that if he closed his eyes he might feel as if he was back in the mines of his homeland, that was how comforting it all was. But he was not there. It did not seem to matter.

"He digs a well," Treebeard said, interrupting Gimli's thoughts, bringing him back to present. The dwarf looked at the imprisoned Ent and saw the depth that his foot reached as he stomped.

"A well?" Gimli asked, appreciating the pulse he felt in the rock and soil. He could sense the spring rising to the Ent's urging and knew water would spout forth from the hole Greywood dug in just a few more thrusts.

"He desires a draught," Treebeard explained, "as all Ents do."

A thought occurred to Gimli, and he worried it aloud though he did not think hard on the sudden sympathy he felt. "You will not keep him from it, will you?"

"Nay, nay," the Ent answered. "He is an Ent still. He may be granted this."

The dwarf glanced around him then, seeing no other doing this act. "Why is it he is the only one to dig?" he asked.

"Ohho hooom," Treebeard rumbled. "The others will do so in their own given time. We say amongst ourselves that a good well to an Ent is like a good nest to an egg. None will settle in without a font dug first. Wells will come."

Gimli smiled at this, for dwarves had a similar saying, except theirs had to do with hammers. But again, Treebeard interrupted his thoughts.

"In time, perhaps, they will do this. But few of the Ents find this land to be like theirs and I think it will be a long time before they settle comfortably." And in Gimli's mind he thought that 'a long time' might actually mean years. That was a very long time to go without a drink. Yet Treebeard did not linger over that detail. "Feeling at ease is important in their desire to dig. Yet some may dig. Indeed some may. _Hoooooooom._"

"Feel at ease, you say," Gimli pointed out. "Given that, I find it strange that Greywood seems the least harried of you all. After all that has happened, I'd think he'd be the most agitated."

"He is either cursed or blessed in that, for he seems to have peace in his mind," Treebeard weighed in. "It is disturbing to me though that he is this way, for I must judge him for his actions. Yet how does one judge the actions of a friend who is not aware of his crime?"

The question was one they all had been contemplating, and for various reasons. Gimli did not want to dwell there. He would know better whether to despise Greywood for his crimes if Legolas survived this ordeal. Until then, the dwarf was angry. And simultaneously, he pitied. These were conflicting feelings indeed. He didn't want to think on that though, so instead he said, "I suppose it is better that Greywood is at ease. It does not bode well when he is riled."

"It seems only things that remind him of wretched events will set him off. But I worry not for that now. In truth, I think his mind so skewed in its madness that he knows not where he is. He would probably dig even if he was trapped in the most dire of locations," Treebeard confessed.

Gimli shook his head, feeling the pity he had already acknowledged escalating. But then he wondered of the Ents that guarded Greywood. "But what will the others do to sustain themselves if they do not dig wells. Surely Ents must thirst?"

"Of course," Treebeard said with a rumbling hroom. "But we shall survive it. We are Ents after all! Stern and strong. Broad and valiant. A few weeks without our draught will not hinder us so long as there is water nearby that we can drink. And should we come to need it, we can drink from Mithtaur's well."

Gimli raised a brow, suddenly concerned. "Is that wise? You saw what his brew did to him… and to Legolas. I would not have you risk your sanity."

It seemed to Gimli that the Ent then leant back, as if taken by surprise, and he watched as Treebeard blinked and seemingly pondered his question. But then the Ent in turn surprised him by letting loose a chortle that shook the very earth. It was low and grinding, but Gimli sensed that it came from his very roots. "_Hoomhoomhoomhroooooo. _Nay, my dear Dwarf, this you should not fear. Mithtaur's draught will be safe to drink. For the cause of its tainting is gone. Sauron. Sauron. He is what poisoned the brew."

"And Mithtaur is mad for it, as you well know!" Gimli exclaimed. "Will that not effect what he draws now?"

"Do you think him permanently tainted? Diseased? Do you think his madness contagious? No, no. It is like bees that make honey from the flowers of their season. Do the blossoms of clover forever spoil the taste of their honey? No. A new season brings forth new flowers, new flavors. That is all that needs happen here."

Gimli sighed warily. He looked at Greywood, repeating his ritual, muttering beneath his breath, and all he could imagine this Ent rendering was madness. But Treebeard knew his kind and the dwarf felt he should believe him. Even now, as the spring that Greywood dug bubbled mere inches from his reach, Gimli sensed the cleanliness of it. The water was fresh, filtered by the earth. He felt nothing of the stagnant dreck that had resided in the pool by the lake or the font that Greywood had previously fed from.

Treebeard continued. "It was the poison Sauron poured into Mithtaur's drink that set his mind on this lonely track. Sauron. Sauron. He is gone now. He is the poisoned flower. And perhaps, perhaps, Mithtaur can be healed now. I have been thinking on it," Treebeard murmured. "I have been thinking on it."

Gimli's brow furrowed as he studied the imprisoned Ent. And then he asked, "What will his fate be?"

Treebeard paused a long moment before answering, his voice growing low. "We will gather another moot and his case will be pled. I cannot say for certain, but it is could be he will be cast out. Cast out or treed."

"Treed?" Gimli asked. "What does that mean?"

"No Entdraught will he be allowed. No right of movement will he be given. He will be forced to set root, to still, to cease voice. And in time he will become as the trees we mind. He will live as them. He will die as them."

Gimli had never really thought much of the lives of trees, though he knew Legolas had. And by his recollection, the elf found the lives of trees to be happy, serene. And perhaps they were. But Gimli could not imagine such complacency for himself. To be held in such restriction felt like a horrible punishment. And though they did not move about greatly, Ents did move. To have that taken away… Gimli suddenly felt a terrible sense of loss for Greywood and the punishment he might endure. "It was not his fault," he said in the Ent's defense. It was not his intention to excuse what had been done. Far from it, he was angry with Greywood, angry that Legolas had been so maimed, so harmed. Yet he also recognized that Greywood had been a victim, just as many others had been. Sauron was a formidable foe, and few with good hearts willingly submitted to Him. Knowing all he did beyond the reach of Sauron, he believed indeed that Greywood had a good heart.

For once Treebeard said nothing, and Gimli knew the Ent felt the same as he did. Yet a horrible crime had been committed, and that could not go unnoticed or unpunished. Gimli was glad it was not his to decide.

"I am sure you will make the right choice," he said. He turned away then, looking out into the dark night. He did not want to think about this though the Ent's crazed muttering was hard to ignore.

His eyes wandered the landscape. Accustomed as he was to the dark, he easily made out the details of the world around him. He had barely had time to notice it before when it had been day; he had been holed up in the healer's tent since. But now he spied the cliff side that had once been the wall that dammed the lake. It was rent, torn through the middle, eroded with waste of crags and exposed rocks. He saw the crevices that had been carved by the rapid assault of the spilling water, fissures cut into the earth. And then he saw what looked to be an opening. An opening? And then he remembered the cave that was hidden there.

Gimli grunted a note of farewell as he drifted away from the pen. He did not mean to be disrespectful, but he no longer wanted to feel pity or sympathy for Greywood. He had sought the night to find answers that could help his friend, not to re-examine the wounds that were already there. And something of that cave was drawing his attention.

The base of the rock face was marred with rocks that had been torn away in the spill, mud and silt overflowing the bounds of the river basin that made up its foundation. He began the climb over the stony floor, cognizant that he wore the Ring and could move anything that hindered him. He saw above him the openings that he expected were clefts that led inward. He remembered what he had been told of the history here, that there had once been dwarves that mined these hills. They had found nothing but copper, but too Narvi and the others had used them as a hold, a hideaway from the onslaught of attack. Unfortunately their means of escape had been lost as well and they died there. Gimli remembered again that he and Legolas had set out on this journey in part to pay homage there. And suddenly he wanted to see those caves, to dig there, to uncover what they had seen, to view their last resting place.

Further, he felt somehow that his people had failed. They had had opportunity to explore these lands and make something of it. Yet they had deserted the realm, left it when they had not found the wealth they so desired. Unsatisfied with their minor discovery and unwilling to dig further, greed had motivated them to go elsewhere, into the mountains then. But Narvi had not fled. He had remained, proving his loyalty and love for Celebrimbor as well as the elven people. Clearly he was not an ordinary dwarf. In the end he had been buried here, along with those elves, all perishing in Sauron's attack. Gimli could only imagine that the other routes within the cave must have been cut off somehow; no dwarf built a mine with only a single entry point. He imagined the horror they would have experienced, finding themselves trapped, unable to flee, held captive in that dark hole. All would have looked to Narvi for comfort. How would he have responded?

The way in was now cleared for Gimli to go see. Did he dare attempt it? He could learn their fate. The release of the lake had reopened the cave entrances. That seemed appropriate somehow to the dwarf, an ironic end, that Sauron's departure would free the hold that had kept those elves, that dwarf, entombed.

He climbed the rock face. Slowly, carefully, he made his way up the rock wall where once he had descended. Anything of that ledge that he and Legolas had once stood upon, either digging or fleeing, was obliterated. Now all that was left was the shorn wall, but it was no longer so treacherous, for the pouring water had softened the vertical fall of that cliff face, the lake bottom spilling out over the ledge and creating a cascade staircase of stone and rubble. The reach to the entrance was not a great height either. The torrent of water that had spilled loose had cut a gaping rift into the hillside, an open wound. And as he made his way upward he saw where stones could be moved, dirt could be tamped, and a real walkway could be formed. The climb need not be hampered. The cave could be opened up again.

Now fully engaged in what he might find, he paid no attention to what the Ents or Huorns on solid ground below were doing. It was the feel of rock that he noticed, his fingers digging into earth. He felt revived for it, his heart pounding in his chest as he climbed. His knees scraped over rock, but the climb was not steep, nor was it difficult. And then he reached, extending his hand to pull up, peering into the ridge where the opening had come to his eyes. He grunted as he hauled his body over the lip so he was belly up on a newly made ledge.

But this was no mere hole he looked and into; it was a threshold. The rift was deep, traveling upward to the cleft that had been torn by the raging flood. He recognized what he saw now as a lava tube, a vent carved by molten rock made in the days before dwarf or even elf had been born. And now it was torn open, turned into a slit door in which to enter the caves. He imagined, before the earth had been eroded by the rain of water, that those escaping Sauron had shimmied down this same shaft. Now it was opened out, like a reed torn on its length. It was not wide but it was tall, and the darkness within belied great depth. He could see the marks where the rivulets of escaping water had flowed into it.

Once more he felt his ancestral compulsion tugging at him. Everything of him that was dwarf wanted to see what he could find in that deep space. He put his hand out, feeling even from here the chill air that emitted from that dark void. A whisper of breeze told him air circulated within. Might it be some of those secondary entrances had been reopened with the flood?

But at the back of his mind the need of his friend intervened. He turned to glance back at the camp. No one called but he felt tethered. For the sake of Legolas, he would not part. Now was not the time to go off on adventure. Still, it was here, the cave and its ancient secrets. He would not forget it. He would return when the time was right.

He needed no aid in descending. Gravity carried him to the rock basin and back to the camp. With energy he did not know he had, he bounded quickly over the boulders. But as he drew back to the tent site he looked upward again at the cave entrance. With the lightening of night, the scarred landscape made the doorway even more apparent to his eyes, a dark hollow filled with mystery and history. His heart yearned to learn more, almost as if he was called by a siren song.

He shook his head, as if drawing himself out of a trance. He realized he had not accomplished what he had set out to do. In leaving the tent, he had intended to clear his mind. But if anything it was now clouded. He'd done nothing to find new solutions for his friend.

The rumbling murmurs of Greywood reached his ears once more. He looked back at the pen that had been constructed for the Ent. It truly could not contain the old Greywood if he decided to break away. He could simply step over the barring stones. But the Ent seemed to respect the boundaries he had been limited to.

Treebeard was gone, though other Ents remained to guard the pen. At first Gimli thought Greywood spoke to them, but they did not return comment, and he came to realize the single Ent conversed with no one. He shook his head in sympathy despite himself.

"…much better, much better, much better now as I can think again. The taste is not right though. It is missing something. Still, I can thinkthinkthink now. My mind wandered before, but I need not tell you that. I am sure you noticed. But I have unearthed the drink and I am better for it. Would you care for some of the Draught? It will help clear your mind too, chase away those confusing thoughts. The taste is odd I agree, but it is not bad. It is just not what I am accustomed to, I suppose. My mind is clearerclearerclearer though, you must agree…"

Gimli could not help grumbling his own thoughts in concert to the stream of dialog Greywood maintained. "I would say a clear mind for you is little different than a deluded one."

The Ent seemed not to notice him and kept on his running narrative. "Naynaynay, it will not harm you! It is Entdraught! It will only fortify you and help ease your mind. Try some, you will see!"

And though Gimli knew Greywood was ill-equipped to speak cognitive response, he grew angry at the Ent for those words. "Lies! Legolas drank of your draught and it helped him none. You only need look to see what it has done to him!"

"Drink. Drink. There, that is good."

"He was hurt by you!" Gimli snarled.

"…no harm, no harm, no harm. I would never allow such a thing as to harm an elf, or even a dwarf, for they are small creatures and could not stand up to the might an Ent might wield. And the drink does much good, though it does not tastetastetaste quite right. Still, it could help you. Would you like to try?"

Gimli's fury grew. He shook his head as he climbed up and marched atop the rim of the pen. "You DID hurt an elf! AND a dwarf. You ran Legolas through, and then when you had him weakened and in your control, you tried to poison him with that drink, stopping only so you could bury him alive! How do you answer to that?"

It seemed then the Ent noticed him, for his eyes sought out Gimli. He cocked his head as if curious by the dwarf's outburst but did not appear to really take in the measure of the berating comments. "My jobjobjob is to help. Fangorn told me so, and Celebrimbor asked for no other. He said I was to keep keep keep and protect his people, and so I did."

Gimli felt then that he had somehow taken the place of Greywood's imaginary companion, the one to whom the Ent has been conversing. He shook his head. "You tried to kill my friend. You tried to bury him!"

"He said to me, 'Cover the hole, Mithtaur.' That is what he said, but I did not think he meant not to rise again. His will was strong. We searched long," the Ent said.

"Who? Legolas said no such thing, I am sure!"

"He said, 'I know they perished and it is my doing.'" Greywood bowed his head. "But I would not have chosen this had he not asked. 'Hide my people,' he said. He said I was to bury them. I did so. I did so. I did so. But the fog came. And when we uncovered the hole no one came out. "

"What do you speak of?" Gimli asked. "I do not understand you. Are you talking about Legolas?" But Gimli knew he was not.

"He went in, and when he came out there were tears staining his cheeks. I asked him what he found and he said, 'Hide us, Mithtaur. Bury us so we cannot be found.'"

Gimli paused to ponder the Ent's mad ramblings. Was it possible he spoke of… "You covered over Faeldaer in the end, didn't you?" Gimli thought of the conversation he and the others had had the previous day, wondering of the fate of Faeldaer. There had been no evidence found of the elf's true demise. But Gimli was now beginning to think evidence did exist. "Is his body there in that cave?"

"I triedtriedtried to get them out, but the lobbed stone covered over the hole. I could not remove it in time."

"But did Faeldaer go in there? Was it his body you buried?"

"'Hide my people,' he said."

"Is that what you thought you did when you tried to bury Legolas?" Gimli asked. "Did you think you were covering the other elves, and Narvi?"

"I would never allow such a thing as to harm an elf, or even a dwarf, for they are small creatures and could not stand up to the might an Ent might wield. I was to protect them, keep the raining stone from harming them," Greywood said, repeating some of his previous words.

It was proof enough for Gimli, and reason indeed to go into the cave. Not that finding Faeldaer's body would resolve anything, but it would end one part of the mystery of what had happened here in the end. And somehow it absolved the Ent from the last crime he had committed against his friend: that of trying to bury Legolas alive. Gimli could believe Greywood had thought he was hiding the elves. And it might be that Faeldaer, as was suspected, had used the Ent's baffled mind so he could meet the same fate as his people. _"Bury us so we cannot be found." _He imagined the elf using the Ent to carry out this last deed in ending the colony and he felt saddened by it. Did the Ent know what he did? In his cross-witted state, he had been manipulated like so many others in this dreadful game. Confused, he thought he protected Faeldaer from Sauron's destructive will.

Gimli thought then about what Treebeard had said, that he thought in time the Ent might regain some of his senses. And suddenly Gimli wished it not. Greywood was better off in his deluded world, for then he would not know of the horrible deeds he had done. Let them try him, _tree_ him even, but Gimli found it horrible should the Ent become aware. The mortifying knowledge that he had hurt Legolas and assisted Faeldaer in seeking his own death, would be the worst of wounds, and Gimli did not know if there was a way to heal from that.

"Would you care for some of the Draught? It will help clear your mind and chase away those confusing thoughts. The taste is odd however," the Ent spoke, again repeating what he had previously said. He frowned, looking down, reaching for something that wasn't there, cradling his arms. "Drink. Drink. There, that is good. That will clear your mind. Now you can heal. Now you can find some peace."

At first he and Legolas had come to this forest to fulfill their promise of adventure together. And then their journey had turned into one meant to put away old hurts. Now it was one that centered on saving his friend's life. The spiral downward into darkness had been unyielding, like water draining into a hole. They had been sucked in, all of them. No one had been spared the eddies in this current.

"Drinkdrinkdrink."

Frustrated and forlorn, the dwarf turned away once more. But he paused before he even completed the spin. The Ent's words resonated within the confines of his rocky pen.

"Rest now. Heal. Grow. It is good for you. Do you see how it makes you strong?"

His brow furrowed as he listened to this strange, one-sided conversation, and he imagined Legolas had heard much of this over the last weeks. The offer was concerned, mothering. But there was more to it than just that. The Ent was right. The Entdraught had done Legolas good, at least in the beginning when he had drunk at the moot. An idea then occurred to him. And though he did not think it could heal Legolas, it might help him. He leapt then from the wall and quickly made way back to the tent.

xxxxx

Thranduil knew it was a dream. He was well aware Laeraniel was gone from him, that she had died, that she had suffered from the shearing ache the sea-longing brought. Yet he had chosen it, willed the memory to return to him, and now experienced every moment of it in his reverie just as he had lived it then. It had been years since last he had culled the deeper recesses of his memories. He had not wanted to live this again. But now that he suffered the same affliction as she, he was willing to look back to see if there was a clue there he could use now.

In the dream he touched her face, brushed the tips of his fingers lightly over her lips. He heard the catch in her breath as her eyes vacantly looked out into visions only she could see. Her skin was like silk, cool and smooth to his touch, and yet she was unhealthily pale. He willed color into her cheeks but nothing happened. The bond between them was broken and he could do nothing to help her, to heal her. He took her hand into his but there was no reciprocating squeeze of her fingers. Her hand remained limp, and he remembered feeling then as if the anguish might kill him.

The hurt in his heart was sharp, like a knife cutting into him. Tears had filled his eyes, partly from the misery of losing his one true love, and partly because the physical pain was so deep. But he had knowledge now. This was just a memory, and that fortified him. As much as it hurt, he now knew he could live through it. Still, he let the recollection play out, and he let those wretched hurts wash over him once more.

"Please," he begged her in his dream. "Do not leave me."

And her eyes had shifted then, coming into focus. They were bright and green, like newly blossomed leaves unfolding in the springtime. He gasped. Surprisingly, she was back with him. No long prelude of coaxing, no drifting focus had been needed. It was sudden. She was just there!

He pulled her hand to his heart, claiming what he could of her. So long as her eyes were aware, she was with him. But no sooner did he think this that the color began to fade. He squeezed her hand tighter. "No! Stay with me," he demanded.

Her eyes turned to him and focused, brightening. But her voice was weak. "I have no other choice but to do this."

"But I need you," he pleaded.

"Our son… he is vulnerable," she said, shaking her head as if to deny his words. "Legolas must be protected. He cannot be exposed to this horror." And her eyes sharpened, her lips turned. Her mouth formed a dark snarl. "You -" and he knew the accusation was there.

"I would never let harm come to him!" Thranduil suddenly defended, interrupting her.

"The weakness is in me, but I would end it here! He has already been exposed to the taint. No more. I will save him. This is why I sever the bond," she said, and her eyes softened. She was fading again.

"No, do not do this. Can you not think of what it does to me to have you draw away?" he cried, pleading.

"I do think of you," her eyes sought him out and he could see the misery there. And he knew then what she said to him in that single glance. His acceptance of the gifts had done this to her and he could see the accusation in her expression. The ache she suffered, the heartbreak created by the sea-longing, were layered into her crushed expression. She stabbed him with the guilt. Her voice was flat. "It is already done."

And then she looked away, and he knew the sound of the sea must be in her mind for her eyes faded back to a leaden color, the light gone from her.

"No! Laeraniel!" he cried.

But someone else answered him. "Thranduil!"

He gasped, sitting up suddenly. A hand pressed into his chest as he blinked to clear his vision. The tent. The dark forest. Legolas.

"Is it Legolas? Does he need me?" he asked without seeing yet the speaker who had awoken him.

Celeborn shook his head, his pale hair shimmering softly like a halo in the dim light. "Nay, nay. Your son is yet resting and needs no further aid at the moment. I merely heard your cry and came to console you."

Thranduil lowered his head back to the bed, shuttering his lids with a sigh of relief. "My thanks," he said as he thought of the outcome of the dream. As abrupt as her awakening had been, Laeraniel had never awoken again after that.

"You called out your mate's name," Celeborn said.

"Did I?" Thranduil asked, discreetly wiping away the tears that had leaked from the corners of his eyes. He had not realized he had spoken while in reverie. He was usually aware enough while resting to manage his words and actions. "I am weary I suppose. Much has happened in the last several days."

"Both you and Galadriel have given much of yourself. I do not begrudge you the need to sleep. Let me leave you in peace so you may find it again," Celeborn said, smiling softly and stirring to rise.

But Thranduil reached out to him, touching his upper arm. He was shaken by the dream. Perhaps he should not have gone there after all. "No, please. Be companion to me for a few minutes. Your comfort would ease me."

His cousin nodded, and this time he acquiesced with his own lowered gaze. "I am here for you," he said.

Thranduil settled himself, laying back. "You have been more than kind to me though I have not always been to you. All that has happened here surely is a reminder of darker times for you," Thranduil said. Now that he no longer held the Dwarf Ring he could appreciate the fullness of Celeborn's generosity, and he was moved to speak of it.

But the elf lord tilted his head in a way that made him look surprised. "Darker times, yes, but I would not deny you aid," he finally said. "I owe you much."

Thranduil could not help giving a deprecating chuckle then. "I can imagine you owe me nothing. It is I who will have a debt to repay when all is done," he said, thinking on his churlish behavior these last many weeks.

"I'm afraid my memory is longer than yours. I do not forget that I failed you in the days of Eregion," the silver-haired elf said grimly.

Thranduil had naught to say, frowning and shaking his head as if that might be enough to dissuade the elf lord from his self-blame.

But it eased nothing. Celeborn went on. "I was smug with ambition then and thought only of my own goals, not what my words or actions did to you. You were so young, practically a child. I should have guided you better, my cousin." He rested his hand on Thranduil's. "And what I do now – what _we_ do now – is small compared to all you have endured as a result of our failing."

"You do not owe me. I do not hold _you_ of account. Even Galadriel –" Thranduil began stirring to sit up.

Yet the elf lord countered him, interrupting. "I know what Galadriel did." He paused, letting the gravity of his words penetrate the silence that followed. "I have forgiven her for how she manipulated you. But I do not know if you can forgive her. Or me. I was to be your guardian and yet I let you down. What happened to you is as much my fault as it is hers. I hope someday you will forgive us. We try. She tries." His eyes conveyed his plea for forgiveness as he looked down on his cousin.

Thranduil glanced at his hand, pulling it away from his cousin so he might look at Nenya. It was a mighty gift she gave to make up the hurt, and if his heart was spiteful, he could have used that as a weapon. But he knew the gift of Nenya had nothing to do with what Celeborn was saying. It was given to aid, and because Galadriel had deemed he would use it for good.

And beyond that, there was a reason the Lothlorien lord and lady had given so much aid to him. Guilt was a factor, this was true. But concern and love were another. He thought about his cousin's words. Celeborn sought forgiveness for them both, and a darker Thranduil had been unwilling to see that. Now, in this new light, the elf had a more giving heart.

"I can forgive her the past," he slowly said. And then he looked Celeborn in the eyes, gazing deeply there. His voice grew husky as emotion wrecked it. "She has been generous in aiding me, in regaining my son. That far overrules any petty grudges I might have once borne."

"And me? Can you forgive me, Thranduil?" Celeborn asked, and there was an air of desperation in his voice.

He sat up fully now so his eyes were level with his blood brother. And then he placed a hand upon his shoulder and said, "The draw of power is fierce. I forgive you for desiring it above the welfare of your kin. I think of you as unaware then of what you might have done. Let's say no more of it."

Celeborn smiled softly, dipping his gaze in gratitude. "Sleep now, Thranduil." He glanced toward his sleeping wife. "She is exhausted, and if she is thus fatigued, you must be doubly so."

Thranduil looked at Galadriel. In repose she looked small and frail. "She has given me strength. I could not have done this without her. But…" He looked then at his cousin and then again at her, his brow furrowing in question. "Can _you_ give her succor- _feäglaur_ - as she gives to me?" He was thinking of their marital bond and the powers granted at the root joining of their _feär_.

"That is not possible," the silver-haired elf replied and he looked sad once more. "For she is afflicted, just as are you, with the sea-longing. There can be no healing aid between us."

Thranduil frowned in confusion, for he had thought light remained between them still. "But you retain _erthad a hun_, do you not?" he questioned, realizing the instant he spoke what an impertinent and personal thing he asked.

But Celeborn did not shy away from him. Bluntly he stated, "It has been an age at least since we last had such intimacy. We remain bonded, but we do not offer succor in the marital bed. Ever since the Ring came to her has it been like this," Celeborn explained. "With Nenya, she could keep _cuivëar_ from passing to me, but that may not hold now that she has relinquished the Ring to you. Our bond may have to be broken if I choose to remain here. But even with Nenya she ceased to touch me as she did before she was afflicted." And Thranduil understood, though he winced at learning this. It was almost too much for him to know. Such intimacies were the greatest pleasure one elf could offer another, but they were also private secrets held between spouses. What Celeborn was telling him was that he and Galadriel had not been as lovers for thousands of years. And it was because of the Ring that this part of their marriage had been affected.

Thranduil felt the heat spread over his chest for the selfless sacrifice Galadriel had made. For years and years he had been jealous of the power she wielded, happily accepting the Ring Annatar's kin had offered him, thinking he could rival her in accepting It. It had never dawned on him the agonies she faced for taking Nenya, the suffering she had endured in her heart and her marriage because of It. She had taken It because she was the best keeper of such power. But Nenya had infected her with the sea-longing. For the sake of Middle Earth she had done this. Thranduil could not confess his ambitions were so selfless.

And more, because Galadriel loved Celeborn, she would not hinder him with her affliction. She recognized that Celeborn must remain whole to rule their people. Thus the end to their intimacy had come. Her love was great indeed.

Even more suddenly, Thranduil realized this same gift of sacrifice had been offered to him. The dream, still fresh in his mind, was poignant and real, Laeraniel's words still rang in his ears.

"_I have no other choice but to do this,"_ she had said, and now he saw that perhaps she was not doing this as punishment to him, but to protect him. Could it be?

He played the memory over in his mind, but he did so trying to appreciate a different sentiment behind all the words. Was Laeraniel sacrificing herself for him?

"_I do think of you,"_ she had said, and with this new perspective, he saw a difference in her eyes. So wracked by guilt had he been that he had not noticed it before.

In her eyes there had been love. Love, noble and unflinching. She was forfeiting herself, separating herself from him so that he would not be afflicted as she was. There was no incrimination in her voice, only heartbreak. For she knew that severing the bond only weakened her. She would die. She knew this. And yet she chose this to save him, to save her child.

"_Legolas must be protected. He cannot be exposed to this horror,"_ she had said. And in his befuddled mind he had thought she accused him, pointed to his frailties and directed his aching heart to his culpability. But he saw now that what she was saying was that she wanted him to keep Legolas safe from the _cuivëar_ that plagued her. It was for her son's sake as well as his that she had broken their bond… because if Thranduil was also afflicted, then no one would be able to guard Legolas's future. In fact…

"_The weakness is in me, but I would end it here." _Did she speak of her lineage? The traits she passed on to Legolas? If so, then she understood what jeopardy their son faced if he was further exposed to the sea. She was evidence of such frailty in her people. _"He has already been exposed to the taint. No more. I will save him." _Indeed, she knew how the sea-longing had been delivered to her, how she had been afflicted. The candles and their wicked scent had imbued her mind with the call of the sea. And Legolas had been exposed to them too. They were not meant for him, and fortunately he had turned away, but that poison had touched him and he was made more susceptible because of it.

This is what she said, and Thranduil finally understood. Yet he had not comprehended these meanings then, and he regretted it greatly. It was the power of the Dwarf Ring, the wine, Sauron's pull over him that had blinded him to the meaning she tried to convey. He did not see then. But he saw now. He felt he should cry his lament.

"How do you bear it?" he gasped, coming back to the moment, fighting off tears that stung his eyes.

"How do you?" Celeborn replied.

"My wife is gone. I have no choice."

Celeborn's voice was sharp. "My wife is here and I have no choice." He paused, swallowing, breathing a heavy sigh, and Thranduil could see he schooled a quiet rage. At last he spoke, his words curt. "I carry a heavy grudge for Celebrimbor, cousin to my wife. He destroyed much that was my life." And again, Thranduil saw all previous notions he had had about this elf were wrong. Celeborn too had suffered, and though he outwardly placed blame on Celebrimbor, they both knew the true menace had been Sauron.

Legolas moaned then in his sleep, and they both looked to the bed where he rested. Thranduil watched as Celeborn walked to his side. He touched a hand to Legolas's brow, and Thranduil saw the frown that came over his features. He brought fingers to the pulse point at Legolas's neck and shook his head. "So weak yet," he murmured, but Thranduil understood the message was to him. The improvement they had looked for was not there. Legolas continued to fade.

This time Thranduil did not try to mask the tears. The lump in his throat was choking him and he wanted to roar out his fury at the futility they experienced. But instead he set his mouth in a hard line and pushed his feet off the cot to rise. "Peace, Cousin, the _feäglaur _is not yet needed," Celeborn assured him.

But Thranduil shook his head. "That is not why I rise." He then set his eyes on Galadriel and stalked over to her bed. Looking down on her, he saw the fatigue ringing her eyes. Still her beauty was unmarred, her golden hair pooling around her face made her look gentle, peaceful. He paused for a moment to look at her, and then he bent down and reached his hand beneath the cot she rested on. He found her satchel there and immediately pulled it out. He rose without disturbing her and was rummaging through its contents before he even completely turned.

"What is it you do, Thranduil?" Celeborn asked, concern and anger for the invasion overridden by the hard look in the younger elf's eyes.

"I would cast my gaze in the mirror again," he replied, and he brought out the silver bowl and laid it upon his bed.

"You know that will not help you," Celeborn returned, now coming to stand over Thranduil. "The mirror cannot solve this, it can only point out the possible conclusions. I said the same to Gimli."

"I care not," the elf king spat. He was tired of being helpless. He wanted to know what to expect, how he should react, what choices yet remained.

"It will not be the same as when you last looked," the silver-haired elf pointed out.

"If it shows me twenty different outcomes, that is twenty more reasons to hold hope than I already have," Thranduil snapped. He pulled out the leather flasks that were filled with the water from the Lorien river. Unstoppering one, he lifted it over the mirror, making ready to pour.

But Celeborn stilled his hand. "And what if each of those twenty outcomes shows only his death? Will you be glad you looked then?" His voice was gentle, pleading.

Thranduil stared, both shocked and sickened by the very thought. Witnessing so many means to a bitter end was not his intent. He wanted only some comfort, but recognized it might not come to him. He bowed his head and wept. And Celeborn knelt down by his side so as to comfort him. They held like that for a long moment.

And then Celeborn's words came into his ears. "Thranduil, may I see that waterskin?"

Thranduil still held the leather carrier and handed it over, a look of question passing in his gaze.

"This water comes from the Nimrodel," Celeborn said, holding the flask up so he might steady it and see it in this better light.

"Does it? I would not know," Thranduil dully replied.

"But I would, for I saw her fill these skins," Celeborn said, and he was suddenly on his feet walking to the center table. "Gilfonel!" he called, and the healer was there.

"My lord?" Gilfonel queried.

"This water comes from the Nimrodel," Celeborn repeated, and though Thranduil was lost for the meaning of that statement, the healer's eyes widened in sudden understanding. He immediately turned to an aid and gave instructions for tools and implements to be brought forward.

And meanwhile Celeborn turned to Galadriel and gently woke her. She blinked as he whispered to her. She nodded, confirming his thoughts, and then she too came to her feet and went to the bed where Legolas lay.

Through this all, the healer had begun to undress the wounded leg once more, gently opening and revealing the hideous injury. Thranduil drew near, looking again at the wicked gash as the packing was pulled away. He took in a quaking gasp for the wound looked no better despite all the care and treatment it had received. In fact, it looked as if might be worse, with more of the flesh dying away.

But the physician did not stop to study the changes. Instead he poured part of the contents of the first waterskin into a bowl. He then dipped fresh linens into the bath. Then lifting out one of the cloths, he drew it over the exposed leg and squeezed the liquid into the wound.

Legolas immediately bucked, the pain obvious. He cried out, kicking, and each at the table took a limb to hold him down. Thranduil, however, was not among them.

"What are you doing! It is harming him!" he shouted, diving forward, trying to pull Gilfonel's hand away. But Celeborn was then there behind him, pulling him off.

"Let him do this, Thranduil! It is merely water! It is cleansing! It rids him of the poison from Sauron's wound."

Suddenly Gimli was there, charging through the curtain flap that served as a door. "What goes here?" he demanded. "Why does Legolas cry out?"

Legolas sobbed a guttural cry, shaking his head despite his unconscious state. His breathing was labored and his brow was creased with pain. His arms reached out, hands clawing, as the healer's aides pulled him back, keeping him down. The elf fought, maneuvering and canting to an awkward angle on the bed. His head and one shoulder teetered at the edge, and he gasped, breathing hard. His eyes opened then, but they were unseeing and pained, and Thranduil knew he was yet in his dream world. He imagined the horror his son must be facing, for it was writ in Legolas's expression, face red, tears streaming from his eyes.

And then the young elf stilled, gasping, his mouth open, sucking for air. His eyes looked out, lost. And his arms slackened, the curl of his fingers loosening as his hands dropped once more to the bed. His head fell to one side, and Thranduil saw his eyes droop, his brow soften. His breathing stopped.

"Lord Thranduil…" Gilfonel began, but the elf king required no further urging. He was there, hands at Legolas's heart.

TBC

**Translations  
**_Feä _or_ feär – spirit _or_ spirits_

_Cuivëar – sea-longing: _a word I contrived for my story arc; this is an affliction that can kill if ignored – all elves who have been touched by cuivëar must eventually go off to the Undying Lands or else relinquish themselves to fading (dying). The stress their longing places on their hearts is simply too much for them to bear.

_Erthad a hun - union of the heart: _the elven equivalent of marriage vows, only in their case, souls are shared rather than rings.

_Feäglaur – spirit light: _a succoring technique whereby energy from one elf is transferred to another, though it's more a spiritual healing than physical.

**A/N:** Once again, I must lavish my deepest gratitude on my reviewers for your encouraging words and praises. I can't even begin to tell you how much you've inspired me with your generous outpouring. I feel renewed because of you, and my impetus to go on is truly sparked. Thank you! Thank you!

A quick reply to a few queries:  
On Faeldaer's eyes and hair color, I have to confess I really didn't put too much thought into what his lineage was when I conceived the notion of his appearance. The truth is I met a woman once with such coloring and I was quite moved by her beauty. Golden eyes and auburn hair are just stunning. From there Faeldaer was born.

On Galadriel and the sea-longing, this idea is not mine; it stemmed from Tolkien's _Unfinished Tales_. In the chapter on The History of Galadriel and Celeborn it was written, "…she received Nenya, the White Ring, from Celebrimbor, and by its power the realm of Lórinand was strengthened and made beautiful; but its power upon her was great also and unforeseen, for it increased her latent desire for the Sea and for return into the West, so that her joy in Middle-earth was diminished."


	63. Push Pull

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Sixty-Two: Push Pull_

Galadriel stretched into wakefulness, feeling more refreshed for the rest she had taken. She was not thoroughly renewed, but she was better and she knew she could give more of herself for having been given the time to sleep. She immediately sensed that the day had grown old, that the hour was long past midday, but she felt no guilt for it. It had been a grueling night and everyone involved in tending Legolas had been thoroughly exhausted.

The treatment with the Nimrodel water had proven to be their most trying, and she was not convinced it had been their wisest move. In plying the wound with it, they had learned exactly how deep Sauron's influence had been upon the younger elf. Legolas's cries of pain were derived from the extraction of the penetrating poison. The Ent-drink Legolas had been forced to consume had had a lasting effect; in the weeks of his imprisonment, that black potion had been dosed him again and again, and they saw now how it had leeched into his body. It resided in the muscle and tissue now.

With the Nimrodel water, black ooze had bled from the wound, and that was a good thing. But they all knew more still remained. The pain the treatment had created was unexpected and Legolas's retreat had been great. Thranduil had had difficulty keeping his son present. She had actually joined hands with him, pouring her own strength directly into Legolas just as Thranduil did. And as a result, she had seen the shadowy presence inside the princely youth. It was sly, lurking in the corners of Legolas's soul. It was almost physical in the way it assaulted him, biting and slashing, trying to devour anything it touched. And though they had weakened it with the Nimrodel water, much still remained.

She also had seen how greatly Legolas had been pushed by his despair. The pain in his heart was a two-fold thing; the sea tore at it as did the ache from the interrupted bonding. The rupture in his spirit was deep and raw, and she recognized he was not taking well to the healing bond Thranduil offered him. No fault to Thranduil, this was something bigger than a parental bond could mend. It was as if a small bandage was applied to a wretchedly bleeding wound. And at the same time, the sea called Legolas to it, and its allure was great. But it was heinous too for it tore at the shreds of his heart whenever he drew nearer. In the end, to silence the pain that assaulted him in body, mind and spirit, Gilfonel had been forced to dose Legolas with a potion that rendered him unconscious and unthinking. It was not a perfect solution, but it had allowed the healer to draw out some of the poison. And once past that she had suggested to Thranduil that he place Nenya in Legolas's hand to help quell the sea's beckoning once the sleeping draught wore off.

Since then, Legolas had found peace in dreamless sleep and they all benefitted from it. They had slept too, though she also recalled Thranduil rising at Gimli's urging. Now as she rose, she saw Thranduil reclined, sleeping again, so it was clear he had returned to his rest. The golden-haired king had been completely drained physically and emotionally in the closing debate they had had before retiring.

She stood, stretching her limbs, feeling the taut muscles loosen as she extended herself. Quickly she took in the status of the tent. An aide to Gilfonel sat near Legolas's bed while most everyone else reclined in their respective places, sleeping or meditating or gathering their thoughts as they would. The flap to the tent was open and the sweet scent of fresh air beckoned her. But as she began to step that way she also noted the stirred motion of Gimli, who, almost invisibly, sat on the opposite side of Legolas's bed.

The dwarf looked her way as she began to move, and the concerned expression he wore gave her reason to pause and to consider what occurred with Legolas.

The elf's eyes were open but they stared out unseeing. His brow was furrowed in what looked like mental anguish. She stepped near the bed and allowed her fingers to drift to Legolas's brow. Beads of sweat budded there. Lost in visions, his breathing was shallow and quick. "He sees the sea," she said to Gimli, dreading what his reply would be. Now was not the moment for this debate to continue.

Gimli turned back to his friend, studying his face. She saw he clasped Legolas's hand, and in that moment he squeezed it lightly. "I know this look well," he intoned. It seemed he tempered himself, for they had been at opposite sides of this argument before, and it was clear he did not want to counter her now. Deflated, he simply said, "He has worn it before." She bowed her head, respecting his concern, but she wouldn't argue the point.

She watched as Legolas swallowed and softly moaned, turning his head slightly as if trying to look away. His other hand flinched and she saw Nenya had been lost from his grip to the folds of the bedding. She picked It up and closed the curl of his fingers about the ring. He sighed then, and closed his eyes, and she felt appeased. His breathing slowed and deepened, and it seemed then that he slept.

She said nothing more, pushing away from both the bed and the short conversation and continued to the door. Stepping out into the afternoon air she breathed fully the sweet air, free of medicinal smells and tension.

The scent of wood smoke touched her nose, followed immediately by the aroma of roasting meat and herbs. Her stomach growled as she acknowledged her hunger. Her fatigue had overruled her desire to eat before, but now she wanted food. She neared the cooking and was rewarded with a plate handed to her without even needing to ask. Turning to seek a place to sit, she recognized that Gimli followed her. She grimaced inwardly, for any attempt to stall out this disagreement would be null should he seek her.

She found a downed tree on which to sit just outside the earshot of the camp and turned to see if the dwarf would follow. He smiled, regarding this as an invitation, and she took a calming breath. He did not wish to argue with her either. She also realized, with the innocence of his approach, that she could wile her position to rule their debate… if she so chose. If she chose. But if there was anything she had learned from this ordeal it was that manipulating a situation could create hurtful results. She almost shook her head outwardly. She would not do it. She would hear Gimli out and refrain from using her graces to alter his position.

He ducked his head in a modest bow as he came before her. She simply smiled and offered him some of the food from her plate. He waved it away, muttering, "No, please eat. I'm sorry to disturb your meal. You are hungry and I have already eaten."

"I will admit I feel starved." Courtesies dispelled, she lifted a piece of the meat to her mouth. Meat juices covered her lips and trickled down her chin. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. She didn't care for grace then. It was better Gimli saw her thus, she thought, for then perhaps he would realize she was just another among those trying to help Legolas.

He chuckled at her crude manners, and in some ways she thought he might fancy them as she did resemble more a dwarf than elf in the way she presently ate. But he did not dwell there, instead turning to small chatter. "The hunters had to go quite a distance before they found game. The battle yesterday scared most of the forest creatures off."

"I imagine that is one of the reasons the Ents are slow to engage in activity. They consider the environment they make for the inhabitants of the wood they keep. Rabbits, squirrels, deer… they wish not to disturb their homes," she commented between bites. "I am intrigued though that a fire was procured."

"It was Treebeard and Sweettree who provided the wood. They said there was much that was decayed and old in this part of the forest, that we would aid them if we would burn it. It is hard to imagine it though. Are not the trees the bodies of their dead? It seems disrespectful to me. Dwarves honor our fallen. We memorialize them. But that seems not to be the way it is here," Gimli commented dryly.

"But I understand why. It is much the same among elves," she said, and he looked up at her with dismay. "Of course we also honor our dead, but we don't entomb them. Elven bodies quickly fade to the elements of the earth. Though we create graves, we know in short time all remnants of body are gone into the soil. You will find no bones littering graveyards with our kind, and were we to encase an elven body in a stone tomb, all you would find in short time was dust where the body had been."

Gimli seemed to consider this. "So you are saying that elves are much like these Ents? Once dead, the body feeds the earth?"

"If the spirit has fled, there is little reason to hold onto that which fades away. Besides, elves have long memories. We remember our dead even if we cannot hold to them," she explained.

"Hmmm," Gimli murmured. He seemed to be considering this. "I wonder if the Ents hold memories long too. When they brought the wood, Treebeard said it should have been cleared years before. It seemed almost that they wished to be free of the remembrance that came with them."

"Many of the trees here died because of Sauron's poisoning," she reminded him.

"Do you think they would want to be done of Greywood too? He is a remnant also of that time," Gimli asked, a dark mood settling over him.

She felt suddenly it was hers to defend the Ents and what they might do to old Mithtaur. "I cannot speak for them," she replied. "But I know the Ents respect life in all forms, and they would take no action against him lightly, despite his madness."

"The madness was delivered to him via the Dark Lord," Gimli said.

"I am aware the cause," she replied, then took another bite of her food, having forgotten it for a minute.

"Treebeard said he may not be forever marred. He said that now Sauron has been removed that Greywood may return to normal."

"That does not ease my worry," Galadriel admitted after she had swallowed. And here they had come to the point of their discussion from the night before. Gimli felt it would help ease the sea-longing if they fed Legolas the Ent-Draught. The cuivëar was one of the things that afflicted the elf, and Gimli argued that removing it could help them battle the roots of Legolas's true ills – heartbreak and the physical wounds. And she could not argue that, for every time they came to battle those hurts, Legolas would flee into the sea-longing. Perhaps among his hurts, that was the easiest to take. But though she could see the logic, she could not dismiss the fact that the draught had altered the mental states of both Mithtaur and Legolas. It was just another poison.

"You think it is easier for Legolas should you lay the Ring in his hand? That is no long solution," he muttered, then glanced up at her, catching her eye. "Both you and Thranduil will need it, especially him to reach Legolas's heart. How do you suppose It can be shared?"

She looked over the dell to the pen holding Mithtaur as she ate and contemplated Gimli's arguments. The Ent was still, but she could hear him muttering to himself. "You have no answer for this either. What we do now is a temporary solution. Saving Legolas from the leg wound is the first among the things we do."

But Gimli shook his head. "You know that we fight a triumvirate of ills. All must be battled together as any alone can kill him. I offer a solution that will suspend the sea's call to him."

"Gilfonel gave us a solution last night that did the same," she countered.

"To drug him into mindlessness? That may work once or twice, but how many treatments will he need to drag the poison fully from his body? I venture it is more than a few. That leg wound is a hideous thing and Sauron's poison went deep," Gimli objected.

"Your solution is to use the same poison Sauron plied," she returned.

Gimli shrugged. "Treebeard said his folk would drink Mithtaur's draught, that they had no fears of its purity."

"That does not persuade me. Perhaps if there was another besides Mithtaur who could provide a draught," she offered.

Gimli sighed. "It seems not to be the way of these people. This land is not their home. They have no instinct to dig here. Not yet. It would take time for them to settle, and I don't think Legolas has that." He looked thoughtful then, and his eyes strayed to the cliff side where the torrents of water bearing Sauron's spirit had cascaded away. He looked her squarely in the eyes as he continued his plea. "The water used to make the draught is pure, my lady. I can attest to that. I would drink it if it would prove to you it is clean."

She put her plate down and focused her gaze on him as she commented, "You do not suffer the sea-longing. How would we judge the drink's effectiveness from your model?"

"You can judge my sanity," he maintained, raising his brow as if she was questioning this. "The rest would have to come from the repute of the drink."

"That is not a good means of testing," she argued.

He sighed and then looked away. She saw the muscles at his temple and brow tighten, and she could tell he would argue more. She considered once more quelling the disagreement with her charms, but she resisted the coy thought and watched him instead.

"Thranduil concurs my thoughts," he pointed out, and she recalled the debate from the night before. Thranduil had been opposed, but she realized the change of heart came in the morning, when Gimli had pulled Thranduil out for private conversation. She vaguely recalled the beginnings of their discussion before they had left the tent, but she had been fatigued then and had ignored it. Yet she could believe the elf king had conceded Gimli's side. Thranduil was eager for anything that would save his son.

Still, Galadriel, Celeborn and Gilfonel were opposed and unconvinced that drinking a draught that had promoted weeks of dementia and unconsciousness, altering Legolas's thoughts and mind, could be used for the good. As she saw it now, she was not convinced he wasn't permanently altered already. It might be what she presently saw of Mithtaur is what Legolas would be should he regain clear wakening.

Gimli seemed to recognize the arguments singing loudly in her mind. He reminded her of what he knew. "When Legolas drank at the moot, he slept. It was the same effect we saw with the healer's potion only it is Ent made; it is natural. I have never seen Legolas sleep like that. It was a deep and healing respite. He dreamed."

Galadriel blinked, shaking her head. She did not understand his point.

"He dreamed," Gimli repeated. "He drank Sweettree's brew and he dreamed. And the song sung to him was Greywood's. Even drinking a clean draught, he was manipulated to dream as Sauron would have it."

Her eyes grew wide as she began to understand Gimli's argument. "You would have us repeat what has already been done to him?"

The dwarf did not seem to deem this wrong. He breathed out a frustrated sigh as he said, "In his dreams, Sauron manipulated Legolas to believe we were dead, that he lived in a realm he could not escape, to build a complete life among elves that did not exist, to love one who he never really met. Could we not do the same?"

"That does not alleviate my concerns that Mithtaur's draught is now safe," she said.

"Perhaps, in order to prove it is safe, Thranduil should drink it," Gimli added.

She scowled, immediately dismissing the idea. "That would be unwise!"

"If it would help his son, I am fairly certain he would do this," he replied, and Galadriel had to concede that he was right. Taking such a risk was entirely something Thranduil would do.

"He must not," she replied. "He is the only one that can truly make a spirit connection with Legolas. He needs to keep his wits."

"But as you say, he also suffers the sea-longing." The dwarf met her eyes, and he lifted his chin before dropping his gaze once more. And though the gesture was small, she recognized he had her, for there was only one true solution that could dispel this argument. She recognized that she was being manipulated. She couldn't help but smile, for his attempts were obvious.

"You would have me drink," she replied.

"I would have you do what you think to be right of your own accord," Gimli corrected, but she knew this to be false. He was maneuvering her. She stared at him, but he would not meet her eyes, instead looking at the ring on his hand and then gazing out over the field of destruction. Suddenly his brows shot up, and his expression lightened. A slight curl turned up his lips and he nodded to something he saw. "Thranduil seems to concur."

She looked to where he did and saw the elf king, now risen, approaching Mithtaur's pen. He carried a water flask. Clearly he had awoken in the short time since she had left the tent and came to a decision on his own. She wondered now if Gimli had not put him up to this. "What does he do?" she asked. She need not; she already knew.

"It seems he will test the drink," Gimli said, but she launched herself off the fallen tree and immediately stalked forward in intercept of the elf.

"Thranduil, cease!" she called out to him.

He turned, his appearance disheveled, as if he had immediately vaulted from his bed to come to this place. Still bleary-eyed, he came to look at her, pausing in his approach on the Ent.

"You mean to take the draught?" she asked as she continued to march to him.

"I would help my son," he replied in simple answer.

"Give me the flask," she commanded as she came to him, and he looked down dumbly at the implement he held, as if he was unsure what she meant or that he had even held it. He gave it over.

She took it and looked at the soft leather pouch. But her mind was not on it but more on the reasons she should sacrifice herself for this cause. It was not because she felt she owed something to Thranduil yet. She had done all she could to repay him, and she believed he was coming to forgive her for the betrayals and hurts she had knowingly and unknowingly inflicted upon him. Short of falling upon her blade, she had given everything she could to mend what had been done, even giving him Nenya so he might defeat Sauron and heal his son. She would suffer the cuivëar now in its full for him, but she was not saddened by that. She could surrender now to it, traveling West as need be and relinquishing to the Valar and Elvenhome, as all elves eventually must.

Instead she decided it was to Legolas that she owed this. The young elf had lived a trying life, always uncertain of where love might be found, and Sauron's devilry had struck him right at this most vulnerable place. This was why Thranduil was offering himself up. But more than any, Legolas needed Thranduil now. She couldn't imagine how he could survive without his father's help. These two needed to repair the damage done between them.

As if to help her, the chord of the sea hit her hard at that moment. She could not imagine how, for they were a long distance from the sea and no birds sang its lonely call. Still, her heart felt a pang for distant shores, and her desire was great in that particular moment. She felt the tears come to her eyes, the longing to be away, in a place where she could be free of her guilt and self-loathing, and she thought then this too was reason. If Gimli was right, the Ent-drink would quell this. Was it wrong to want a little peace in her heart?

"You would do this?" Thranduil asked, breaking into her thoughts. His voice sounded his disbelief.

"I suffer the sea-longing, and I have Ring no more to ease it," she said in feeble excuse. And though she had contemplated it, this reason sounded shallow and weak in comparison to the magnificence of Legolas's suffering. Yet she would not admit so to Thranduil. He was prideful and she wanted him beholding nothing to her. She was, after all, sacrificing herself for the sake of his son. And so she carried on with her lame reasoning. "If I am made whole for drinking the Ent-Draught, I can aide you better."

He nodded, but she knew he saw through this. Still, he agreed to this logic, and she grimly set her mind to the task ahead of her. She pressed her hand to his shoulder as she turned him away to leave the pen. She spotted Gimli then walking down the slope to approach the rocks that lined the cell. His face was passive, but she noted a sense of triumph in him regardless. He was shrewd, she saw, and it frightened her a little. His manipulation of her had come so easy. The only comfort she took was that she had recognized what he did, and had she put much effort of her own into it, she could have fended him off. But she knew he was right; this was what must be done. And so she did not dwell on Gimli's actions, deciding instead that she would choose this regardless of his urging.

She turned to face Mithtaur. The Ent was quietly muttering, his eyes cast to something only visible in his mind. He paid her no mind, yet she did not want to surprise him. "Greywood," she called out, then softened her voice as the Ent startled. "Mithtaur, friend. May I approach?"

The Ent blinked rapidly, as if waking from a dream, but as he came to himself he smiled, finding her as his eyes searched out the speaker. "Lady Galad-Galad-Galadriel," he answered.

"You recognize me," she answered, accepting this as invitation to near.

"You have always been a shiny elf," he answered, and she couldn't help but laugh at this means he used to identify her.

"I have come to ask your hospitality," she replied. "I thirst and would ask if I might drink from your font."

Mithtaur looked about him then, as if recognizing he was not in his usual home, but then he saw the small well he had made that was rounded out by a bed of rocks and sang the song of running water. He waved his hand to it, directing her to near. "Of course, dear lady, of coursecourse. Drink as much as pleases you."

And with this invitation she neared, kneeling to the pool. She touched the green water with the tips of her fingers and felt its cool cleanliness brush over her skin. The water caressed the curves of her hand as she raised it, but the droplets fell to the ground, as if unable to keep their hold upon her, and this seemed right. Putting the flask off to her side, she cupped her hands and dipped them into the water. Again, she sensed nothing odd to this other than the deep color, which seemed to glow warmly and held the magic of this elixir that was common among the Ents. Had she her Ring, she would know immediately if it was tainted. She looked at Gimli then, and he nodded, as if reading her thoughts. She must trust to others, she decided, and despite all, she knew the dwarf wanted nothing more than to help his friend. If the Ent-draught helped alleviate the call of the sea that haunted her soul, then in turn it might do the same for Legolas. Between it and the Nimrodel water, they would have but one hurt to heal in the young prince of Greenwood and that was his wounded heart. It would still be a battle, but the stakes were better in this than in the other fights they had waged.

And so she brought the draught to her mouth. From there, uncertain if she might face madness or relief, she drank.

**TBC**


	64. Coming Awake

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part IV: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Three: Coming Awake_

It was the sea he noticed. The droning sound echoed in his head, the crescendo sound of waves buffeting on the shore though no shore was there. Sea-longing. He knew it well. At first it was comforting, but after a time it began to wear on him, causing his head to ache, his spirit to yearn. He knew that he was being called on to Aman and that his resistance to that would hurt. He felt like a stone being dragged into the sea, caught in the tide, sinking to the sand, gravity pulling him down while the water tried to wrench him away.

Still, the sea's return was not concrete. At first it seemed it had come back fully, ripping him to pieces with the demand it put upon his focus. But then it started to subside, drifting into silence until it was completely gone, like an imagining.

But then again, everything from the time of his union bond with Faeldaer seemed like an imagining.

He tried to piece it together. He had been ill in his last years, and a part of him had come to accept that something was wrong and that none would be able to resolve it. His only choice had been to accept the pain he suffered and to pursue on. His love for Faeldaer had been a reprieve, and he had come to believe that his love could possibly save him, or at least anchor his heart and soul. He felt sure with their spirit-binding, even should he die of his illness, he and Faeldaer would remain linked, that they would reunite again in the End Days, or sooner if Faeldaer found a way to meet with him in Mando's Halls.

So perhaps it was that now, with the coming and going of the sea, the tumultuous agonies of hurt he felt in his heart and his body, that what he truly suffered was the result of his illness. Could it be all of what he now lived was the result of delirium? A fevered mind?

It was the only excuse he could find. Otherwise it made no sense. None of it.

He tried to open his eyes, to listen to the words being spoken around him. But reason was slippery. That only affirmed his conclusion. His mind had difficulty putting order to anything. From time to time he recognized an action, a person, a place, a thing. But when he tried to join those loose pieces together, to create a narrative around them, all fell apart. He felt lost as words were whispered to him. _"None of it was real… None of it was real..."_ Actual or not, he could not tell. Parts seemed right. Others not. An imagining.

Vaguely, in this abstract world, he recalled being hauled onto a horse, his head dropping back to rest against a strong shoulder. An arm draped around him, taking lead on reins as the horse on which they were mounted shook its head, adjusting the bit in its mouth, the metal jangling. And then he realized the horse was Arod, and he delighted in that though his mind worked hard to reason out how such a thing could be, and if so, why he would be riding _with_ tack. He always rode bareback. _Delirium_, he reminded himself, and he accepted that answer simply enough. He remembered too that his fever-crazed mind had conjured a riding companion, so perhaps it was they who preferred tack. One hand fell to his thigh, the other limply fell to the neck of the animal, and he willed his fingers to lightly brush over Arod's coarse coat, the familiar smell of grass and animal sweat drifting up to his nose.

And then they were riding and there were Ents that marched at their side, keeping pace with the trot of the horses in the company. Elven warriors rode with them… and also, there was the Lothlorien king and queen. Had he not felt so ill and weak he would have laughed at the farcical nature of it all. He half expected an oliphaunt to creep into his vision next. And yet the ride felt real, the gentle trot bouncing him, and with that awareness he tightened his knees, steadying himself on the horse's back.

A pain shot up his thigh and he moaned. He tried to speak, but he found it took more energy to do so than he would have thought. His left leg hurt horribly, feeding the illness he felt. A steady ache thrummed behind his eyes. He closed them, pushing the nausea that accompanied his sickness away as he let his head loll against the one who held him. Surely it was Faeldaer that he leaned against. Yes, it must be Faeldaer for he did not hear the sea any longer. Instead the clip-clop beat of the horses' hooves sounded as they crunched against the grasses beneath their feet. A winter wind brushed over his outward facing cheek while the one holding him draped a cloak across his shoulder. He heard his own breath shudder with the cold and a warm hand pressed into his chest.

White light filled the periphery of his mind, and he felt it drawing through the center of his body, warming him, nurturing, pushing his aches and illness aside. He felt comforted and he wanted to express his love to Faeldaer for doing this for him. Yet it did not feel of the energy, the spirit light, he would expect of the elf. And the words echoed again in his mind, loud as spoken words. _"None of it was real_…" This statement tossed him into a new bout of confusion. Of course none of it was real. He was ill. This was a symptom of his sickness. But he perceived that the voice was speaking of something else, not the present moment. What did it mean?

A woman's face hovered over his. A beautiful smile. Golden hair. The scent of the wind. She spoke to him, but he could not hear the words. Yet she brushed her hands over his face and hair and he felt comforted. And then he realized he knew her. She was… the Lady. Galadriel? And he felt her tender compassion wreathing around him. It humbled him to find himself so weakened in her presence. But he was too weak to be embarrassed. She lifted his head and helped him to drink. He felt light-headed then, closing his eyes once more as he fell back into a floating world.

And then…

Blackness loomed over him, making him howl with the pain it forced into his body. Orientation was a distant thing and he could not sense where his body began or ended, but he knew he felt excruciating agony!

He arched back, trying to resist, but the attempt was futile; the shadow saturated his senses and he was engulfed in the pain. Dully he realized it centered around his left leg, but the shadow was greater than that. It poured away from that site and spread over his body, rivulets of pain spreading away from an uncontained spill. It worked its way to his chest, his heart, and he could feel it gripping there, as if trying to clasp away what was his spirit.

He tried to open his eyes, to fight a way out, but there was no escape. Briefly he caught sight of a hideous wound to his leg but was unable to reason out the injury. Yet, his attention was raked back to the hurt being inflicted on him. It was far greater than just that wound. He was held down, made to suffer, and his screams and tears were ignored. The dark figure reached its fingers into his soul, at his wound, at his heart. It ripped at the nerves that grounded him. Delicate whimpers and panting breaths resonated in his ears but the torment went on.

A flash of white light touched him and the shadow immediately withdrew. The pain settled out and the white light flooded his world again, easing the agony enough that he remembered he had gone through this several times before, always with this lightness coming to his aid, protecting him. Faeldaer. Yes, that was it.

He drifted back, trying to forget the pain. He felt cool water brush over his skin, and all heat brought on by fever and pain seeped away. He floated in the listlessness the light brought him, and he fell back into sleep once more, floating.

He floated.

Someone was speaking.

He opened his eyes.

"Would you like to try to walk back to your bed now?"

He was breathing through his mouth, the sound of his inhales and exhales heavy and coarse. Dully, he lifted his head, water saturating his hair and weighing it down so it was difficult to look up to the speaker. He did not recognize that person. Still, he nodded as if he understood what was being asked of him, the weight of his head making it difficult. Fortunately, little seemed to actually be expected of him. Two figures appeared on either side of him and reached arms about his waist, lifting him from a bath a moment before he had not even realized he was in. No, not a bath, a stream bed. The cool water dripped down his naked body, over his hips, his legs. He caught a glimpse of the wound on his thigh. Pink scar tissue was forming over it, stretched and tender, parts still open and weeping. But his eyes were drawn away as his attendants wrapped a heated blanket around him. He shivered with the chill, relishing this new warmth.

And then he was very slowly carried, walked, across a lawn of green grass, his eyes gazing down at his bare feet as they stumbled a step or two in the verdant carpet. His leg stabbed with pain with each step he took, and he found himself growing breathless with the exertion. He did not really carry his weight. His aides did that. Yet it was exhausting. He had no real strength though he tried to keep pace. It felt real and he kept finding himself wondering if perhaps it was.

"You did very well today." As if he had done this before. Had he?

"_None of it was real_…"

He tried to gaze about him, to make sense of his surroundings, those words. But his mind was numb and nothing sang chords of recognition for him. He affirmed to himself once more that it was an imagining.

"Tired," he managed to say, and his aides nodded, rubbing a towel over his wet hair before pulling a nightshirt over his head and combing fingers through his damp hair. One leaned him back so he could recline while the other applied a tincture and wrap to the wound. Laid back, he could not look at his injury, but he pondered it. He tried to lift his head to look at it but that seemed too difficult a thing to do. He could feel the poison still, like a leaden weight buried deep into the flesh. But it did not hurt as it once did, the shadow a mere ache. He sensed it was healing.

His feet were lifted and the attendant was tucking them into the bedding, clean linens pulled over him. His head fell back, but he did not sleep yet, luxuriating instead in the euphoric stillness. And then he realized that someone was holding his hand. He opened his eyes to look at his companion. A white jewel in a silver setting stood out on the forefinger of the long slender hand. The hand squeezed his, and he looked up, expecting to see Faeldaer but instead meeting Thranduil's eyes. He should have started, but there was an otherworldly feeling to the scene already. He still did not understand where he was or why he was there, accepting that all was a dream contrived by a sickened mind, just as he had come to believe before. Nothing looked like it did in Mírnen. But then he told himself again that this was a delusion, that his father was just a figment of his imaging.

"Not real," he whispered.

But Thranduil only squeezed his hand tighter. "None of it was real," he said. He smiled assuringly. "But I am here now, and I will help you."

Legolas shook his head. "Faeldaer told me…" But he had not the energy to argue, and he dropped his head back into the pillows, the ache in his chest he had forgotten now pressing into him, blossoming anew.

"Peace," he heard Thranduil say, and a feeling of tender love warmed through his body once more. He felt lighter, at ease as the white light bloomed in his chest. And though his heart yearned for Faeldaer, he accepted the gentle concern showered on him, relinquishing to it.

He slept in calm for a time, vaguely imagining a moment of argument, of shouting, confusion, but then stillness again. And in reverie he recalled happier times when such love seemed to fill his days. His mind drifted to his friendships within the Fellowship, lighter moments of their journey. Perhaps those were tense days, but the brotherly love among them made the fear and danger secondary, and he relished the warmth of those feelings.

"Pippin was the worst of them, of course," he heard someone saying, and then he realized it was his own voice speaking. "He loved a good smoke, but he went through his stores so quickly that he oft snuck into Merry's pack and stole plugs of the weed."

"Merry did not notice?" someone queried.

"Nay, because Aragorn would sneak into Merry's pack and replenish what Pippin took," he replied.

"That was generous of him."

"Not really," Legolas shrugged, "for Aragorn made it a practice to sneak into Boromir's pack and steal from him."

Laughter erupted in the room, and he gazed around him, smiling uncertainly, not understanding if the merriment was merited or patronizing. And then he realized he recognized those he spoke to. Rumil was there, sitting at the foot of the bed, one foot tucked underneath him, while the lord, Celeborn, sat in a nearby chair.

"You'll note he has said nothing of the others stealing pipeweed from _me_," a voice intoned from his side, and he turned to see Gimli standing nearby.

"Elvellon," he smiled, startled by the sudden appearance, and pleased. He let the joyous word roll off his lips. Though he had been visited by Gimli's vision a few times in these last years, he still had missed him.

He could not miss the sharp look Rumil passed to Celeborn though, or the whispered question, "Did he not just say that moments ago?"

Celeborn shook his head, lifting his hand, as if to silence the query.

Legolas was confused. He was growing weary of trying to make sense of these visons. And despite the fact that he told himself again and again that these were indeed imaginings, they were progressively growing more real.

He saw Gimli held a tray with a picked over bowl of stew, half eaten, a crust of bread left behind. More importantly, Legolas vaguely could taste remnants of that meal. And then recollection came to him of eating it. That surprised him. But he shook his head, dismissing the thought. His imagination had always been sharp and here was just more evidence of it.

"Of course you are not real," he added, taking up the excuse he had worked out with Faeldaer.

"Not real?" the dwarf replied, but he seemed amused by this. He placed the tray on a near table so as to free his hands. Gimli extended his arms out before him. "Do I feel real?" he asked.

Legolas ignored the offer to touch the dwarf's hands or arms, for he knew what he would find. He maintained his smile as he said, "It matters not. Faeldaer said my guilt is what brings you to me."

"Hmmm," Gimli answered, as if pondering the reply, but Legolas could tell he was indeed patronizing him. "What is it you feel guilty of that you need to recall me?" he asked.

Legolas could feel his smile slipping as he pondered the idea of not answering him. Was he being goaded into an argument? Somehow that was creating an ache in his heart. Further, he felt the dark pain in his leg begin to throb. Still, he decided to play this out, to see where his imagination might lead him. "Your death. In my mind I feel I did not do enough to reach you."

The dwarf scoffed. "Nonsense. You were badly injured yourself and held prisoner. I bear no ill-will toward you. I am not here to haunt you. Quite the opposite: I want to bring you back to reality."

He did not want to do this and turned away. "My reality is elsewhere. You are not here," Legolas said, this time more brusquely so as to dismiss the phantom figure.

The dwarf paused for a moment, as if pondering another tact. And then he said, "If guilt is motivation for delivering me to you, what then is the reason for Rumil or Celeborn being here? Have you somehow wronged them?"

Legolas eyed the elf lord and the famous brother of the queen's guard. He did not have a ready answer to this. But he stubbornly held to his resolve. After all, multiple decades had passed since he had seen anyone from his past. The appearance of these phantom figures was new to his present world. He had lived comfortably and happily in Mírnen for many years, rebuilding his life without guilt. It was the illness that delivered them, he was sure. And a befuddled mind did not always draw straight lines of reason. "You are not real," he repeated, his voice rising sharper though he did not mean for it to.

But when he saw Rumil dip his head, his chin dropping into his chest, it somehow triggered a memory for Legolas, as if he had said these words before, and his ire from Gimli's goading returned to him like a scene from a play he had watched over and over again.

Gimli then added, "Faeldaer is not here." Legolas shook his head, refusing to be further led into this imagined scene, but he could not prevent the stab of pain he felt when the dwarf added, "He was never here."

Legolas resumed his smiled, this time done so in disbelief, but the words that had droned in his mind before echoed around him. _"None of it was real_…"

He lifted his eyes, searching the room, looking for evidence of Mírnen, his possessions, anything of his alternative existence. He lifted his hands to his head, his fingers lacing through his loose hair to find the injury that was creating this illusion. He found a tender spot at the base of his skull, but it seemed an old hurt, not enough to create such a rift in his thoughts.

His gaze drifted over the space and for the first time he saw the view out his window, the mallorns that occasionally dropped silvery leaves onto the forest floor, the flight of a bird that dipped and swooped past the cut glass panes of the window opening, the golden sun dancing on the whisks of winterdry grass. He found his smile drifting away. He was in Lothlorien?

No, that could not be!

He was growing frightened. This indeed was seeming real and he knew it should not be. Where was Faeldaer to comfort him? His fingers curled into the bedding, and he could feel the threads of the quilted pattern in the coverlet, the cotton fibers both cooling and warming. Too real. He pulled away.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was breathing heavily though he had done nothing to exert himself. Still, he would deny what was growing evident to him. It felt real, but it couldn't be. "No," he said, as if saying it would make it so.

But Gimli took his hands and squeezed them, drawing his attention whether he wanted to or not. "Prove to me that that other world existed. Name for me three who you knew well in Mírnen. If you can do that then we can speak of that other place as if it was real."

Legolas scoffed. The challenge was preposterous. He did not even hesitate. "Faeldaer…" he began, naturally. And then his mind searched out another among his friends and he focused on a face, another huntsmen among those he had recruited. He saw a dear friend. Joking. Good-spirited. A talented artist. His lips curved to sound out the name, but he stopped there. Face. Features. Occupation. All were right there in the forefront of his mind for this elf. But no name presented itself. He dismissed it quickly, coming to others. Faces, smiles, jokes. He almost laughed remembering them. But the names… He tried to focus on one, yet even in this, the faces began to soften, losing characteristic features.

He could feel the panic wheeling up into his heart, but Gimli held his gaze, squeezing his hands tighter. He was trembling and his throat was constricting with emotion.

He tried to recall a moment, a memory, to pinpoint a name. The cooks… his fellow hunters… the fair lady who managed the gardens… the weavers… all of these people had been his friends. And yet they were fading, like a far away memory, distant and hazy, drifting away like those waking moments after sleep. He felt like he was losing his family. His eyes stung with hurt.

"You cannot do it, can you?" Gimli softly confirmed. But the dwarf looked at him with his deep, brown eyes, and Legolas felt his concern and compassion. There was no mockery in his tone.

"What happened to me?" he asked, his confusion finally vocalized in the shaky query.

And then Gimli took up the spot on the bed where Rumil had been sitting and began to explain, never releasing his hands. Mithtaur's madness. The storm. Their slide down the cliff face and into the flooding river. All of these he remembered. And then he was told of Gimli's venture to Lothlorien, the joining there with Thranduil, the flight to return to Fangorn. The story could have been long but the dwarf kept it brief coming to the most important points quickly. Still, it seemed to Legolas he had heard the tale before. Yet he longed to push it away, for what Gimli spoke next hurt.

The dwarf told him about the Huorns and how they tended him, dosing him with Ent-Draught, of Mithtaur's song, how he was kept in a dream state and the horrible truth of the witchery in the water. Sauron? The goal to claim an elven body? The reality that nothing of Mírnen had really existed. And Faeldaer…His heart told him his feelings were real. How could he fall in love with a phantom imagining?

His head was spinning and he pulled away, lifting a hand in an effort to make the dwarf stop speaking. "Daro, saes," he whispered bringing his other hand to his breast. It felt as if his chest was being crushed and he winced with the pain. His heart was being squeezed and a sick feeling was making his stomach churn. His head ached, and it felt as if an inky blackness were creeping into the corners of his vision. "Stop. Please…"

His hands were shaking. Gimli had not finished his tale, but Legolas had heard enough. Moments of what the dwarf said flashed into his mind, as if he had been there, seen these things. But they were only that, brief glimpses into moments, unfocused, dreamlike, unreal. Yet he could recall them without prompting, remembering details the dwarf did not speak of, as if he had seen these things. And if these alternate visions were true, then what was he to believe of life in Mírnen? That had seemed real. No! Not _seemed_! It _was_ real! Only now… perhaps it did not seem so. His Mírnen life, tangible and fruitful in his most recent memory, was hazy and vague.

And then a thought occurred to him and he suddenly felt justified in believing this moment false. "This is not real. None of it. None," he said, his voice growing loud and firm as he countered with argument of his own. "For if it was, if I was any place other than Mírnen, I would hear the sea. And I hear it not! I was afflicted, but Mírnen cured me of it. You are not real!" He pushed himself to the edge of the bed deciding he had had enough. He would find Faeldaer himself.

"Legolas, you are not well enough," Celeborn said, rising to intercept him from leaving.

"I am confused by the effect of some potion," he countered, pushing his feet to the ground but finding his legs weak when he tried to rise, the pain in his injured leg making him wince and draw away, barely able to put weight on it. "I have been ill. Perhaps it is fever, an injury while hunting. This leg… But Faeldaer will help me. He always does."

"Faeldaer is not here," Gimli said.

"Faeldaer!" he called out, ignoring the dwarf and pressing himself to take a step, despite the pain. He pushed Gimli away when he neared him with enough force that the dwarf rocked back, stumbling.

Another elf appeared in the door just as Rumil stepped forward to intercept Legolas. "What goes here?" Legolas pushed forward with the intent of racing past. He did not know this elf but he felt as if he had seen him before. His presence brought forth apprehension.

"It is as yesterday, Gilfonel," Celeborn answered, taking a firm grip on Legolas's upper arm before he could pass. Rumil came forward and did the same on the other side. They pushed him back to the bed, but Legolas struggled to free himself. Their grasps were strong.

"Faeldaer!" he cried again, his fury escalating as others came into the room and aided in pushing him back into the bed.

"No more arguments then. We will do this my way," the new elf, Gilfonel, said as he mixed a concoction at one of the side tables.

A commotion of words followed, Gimli arguing against this elf. Gilfonel dismissed the dwarf, proceeding as Gimli stood aside, watching and shaking his head, shouting his disagreement. Celeborn was lifting Legolas's head while the healer held a glass to his lips. But the memory Gimli had sparked of being forced to drink potions that forced sleep upon him combined with the touch of so many hands made him pull his head away, his hand lashing out, his body bucking, spilling the liquid over the bedding, onto the lord's clothes.

"Legolas!" he heard Rumil scold, but Legolas was in a rage, choosing not to believe any of what was happening and therefore not caring that he had struck out at a great lord of Arda.

"Not real," he said, fighting them off. "No!" he shook his head. "This is a falsehood! Faeldaer, help me! Let me go!"

Gilfonel barked an order, and the hands upon Legolas's limbs tightened to secure him more firmly. An aide came to Gilfonel's side, a rag that reeked of noxious fumes handed to the healer, and then the elf clamped it over Legolas's mouth and nose. Legolas knew he was helpless to fight, yet he kicked and bucked, trying to break free. The hands that held him down dug into his flesh.

But the potion overwhelmed him and he coughed as he took a deep gasp, his head suddenly clouded and he was swimming in a fog. The smell, artificial and sharp, filled his nostrils. He felt nauseated suddenly, and he gagged. Someone turned him but he couldn't tell if he was facing up or down. The contents of his stomach spilled out and a pounding thrum grated behind his brow. But then he seemed to regain his semblance of thought, and he realized he was not asleep. His body felt like it was sinking, like it was too heavy, true, but he could breathe and think and listen. He relaxed, choosing not to fight his captors. His eyes were closed and he kept them that way. He would fool them. Let them think he had succumbed to their drug. He had not. He held his body still and he felt the hands holding him relinquish, fall away. He just needed to be patient. In time they would all part and he would be free to try his escape again.

"Oh gods," he heard a voice say, someone new entering the room. Thranduil.

"We must talk," Gilfonel spoke, and he heard the sound of glassware and metal being placed again on the side table as the healer stepped out of the room. Other steps followed, but a hand took his and it felt warm, patting him, comforting. Gimli.

"Will this end, Legolas?" he heard the dwarf ask. "I don't know how many more times we can do this. I need you back. I need—" But he broke off, coughing, choking on the break in his voice. The sentence was left unfinished. "Just come back." He then released Legolas's hands and walked toward the voices speaking in the hall.

Celeborn was saying. "He is confused, just as the Ent was. Can any blame him for fighting this? He thinks years have passed by. He lived in another world. None of what he thought is real."

"Mithtaur is getting better," Gimli chimed in.

"We should not give him the Draught. I have been against it from the start. It only masks reality for him. I will not condone its usage any further," Gilfonel reproached.

"He will suffer the sea-longing without it," Thranduil objected.

"Let him!" Gilfonel admonished. "It has been my opinion that it is best he travel on to Aman anyway. We have done what we can to heal his afflictions without the sea-longing interfering. He is strong enough now to deal with it."

"That is a cruel choice," Thranduil argued. "He need not suffer. You know not how deeply the sea's call may affect him! His mother—"

"If he slips to deeply into melancholy, we can give him the Draught again. But I think we should try this without. Let him hear the sea," the healer pressed.

"Can't we just let him come around as Mithtaur did?" Gimli asked.

"Perhaps Gilfonel is right," Celeborn offered. "Today was much a repeat of yesterday with no recollection of what happened then. It may be the Ent-Draught adds to his confusion."

"I think Sauron's games created his confounding, not the drink," Thranduil countered, but Legolas heard him sigh and he imagined the elf running his fingers through his hair as he decided what was best to do. "But I will agree to halting the Draught for now. It has been weeks that we have been at this, and he is stronger. He does not need my aid as much as he had. His heart is healing. Should he appear to suffer the sea's call though, I will demand it begin anew."

Legolas's interest in their words was keen, but he knew if he was to flee it must be now. The others were distracted and not attendant. His room was on the ground level and his window had been left open. All he need do was rise and climb out the window.

But it was not to be, for as he imagined such a thing, he found it impossible to rise. His body seemed lifeless, and even the command to open his eyelids was ignored by the whims of his body. He could feel his hands, his feet, his face, his skin, but nothing reacted even though he could visualize rising and moving. This seemed to be the effect of the drug they had made him inhale.

The conversation in the hall turned, and a minute later he heard them coming to some concurrence. He had only now to leave. Yet his body refused him. He was forced to lay still, like a bug pinned to a board.

A hand wrapped around his and squeezed. His keepers were back. He had not even heard their return.

"I know you think we are wronging you, that this is some kind of dream," he heard Thranduil say. "But I assure you, it is that other world that is the falsehood."

Legolas wanted to say that he was no fool, that the story they told was too fantastic to be a reality, that Sauron had been defeated and he had seen that demise. He had hard proof on his side: the cessation of the sea's call proved he was in Mírnen.

He focused his will on one small task: opening his eyes. He fought against the torpor that claimed his body, allowing his breath to quicken as he pushed. His lids were heavy, but the dark was lifted as he found strength to open them.

Thranduil squeezed his hand tighter, pulling his chair nearer. Legolas could barely see him, his vision fogged and doubled by the drug yet, but he felt certain a smile appeared on his father's face. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he tried to find strength to muster his next skill.

He was able to slide his jaw, and with it his mouth was able to move. He tested this ability, but he could only muster a gutteral noise. "Aaaa."

"Yes, it is I. _Ada_. I am here." Thranduil seemed to believe that Legolas had called to him, misreading him.

In truth, if Legolas had had his skills about him he would have pushed the figment away, believing him a lie and not worthy a call of affection. His anger was mounting and he wanted to say, 'You are not my _adar_.'

Instead he had no choice but to allow the caring figure to stroke his hand as the minutes passed. Legolas made no more attempts to speak, choosing to let his will and control return so that when he did next make such efforts his meaning would be clear.

The vision of his father hardened, and the tears that fell from his eyes ceased as his resolve became firm. His anger mounted, and the more he thought on it, the more he grew determined to deny this reality. Faeldaer was his world and the elf existed somewhere just beyond the reach of these phantoms. He knew not what was the cause for his madness, he simply accepted that he was mad, and so what he might say, what they might say, mattered little.

At last he found his hands and feet came free of the spell, and he was able to wiggle his fingers, move his toes, brush his hands over the coverlet. He suspected his mouth might work should he attempt to speak, but instead he focused his gaze on Thranduil. The illusion was uncanny; his father appeared so real, and he began to worry that he might be wrong. Had he not also argued when he had been introduced to the people of Mírnen? Had his experiences and disbelief been similar when he first came to them?

His expression must have conveyed his wariness, for Thranduil said, "All will be better now, Legolas. All the wrongs you have suffered will be made right. I will make up the harms I've created."

Legolas did not wish to be reminded of all Thranduil had done to him over the centuries. His fury at being drugged, duped, told his life was not a reality had been enough in itself. But the reminder of his life's hurts put Legolas over the edge.

His eyes narrowed and he could feel his brow furrow. Pain throbbed there, but he ignored it, focusing instead on words that might hurt. "Faeldaer had convinced me to forgive you…" he said, his voice but a whisper, his tongue slurring the words, but they did come at his command. He continued. "Yet if Faeldaer did not exist, as you tell me he did not, that means my forgiveness was contrived." He turned his head but continued to watch Thranduil from the corner of his eye. "Your history gives me little reason to believe you now kind." He sounded weak, but he could tell from Thranduil's expression that the words had power.

Thranduil's eyes went down to their joined hands, as if he recognized the contradiction of such a gesture to the spiteful words that had been tossed at him. But he did not release Legolas's hands. "I hope you will try to forgive me," was what he said.

Legolas's heart hurt with the ache of missing Faeldaer and he drew his fingers away from the elf and to his own chest, to rub the pain away. "You did this to me," Legolas growled.

"Yes," Thranduil admitted, his eyes cast down in shame. "I can help though. I can offer healing touch—"

And suddenly Legolas realized the white light that had visited him and had eased his heart in these recent recollections had come from Thranduil. His father? But his soul had been relieved of its hurt! Could it be his father had done this?

He did not want to think this true. Despite all he heard and seen, he had believed it was Faeldaer who had been helping him.

Legolas felt suddenly tired, and a heavy weariness pulled on his recovered limbs. "I wish to be alone," he finally answered, his misery deepening. He needed time to think, to consider all he had come to learn. Thranduil nodded, but made no move to leave. Legolas could feel his eyes upon him, but he would not return his father's gaze. He wished nothing that might be seen as intimacy to come between them. If this world was real then he had already shared more of himself with his father than he would have wanted. He felt violated once again, and he felt his throat tightening with his emotions, his rage, his hurt.

The silence deepened, and a moment later, Thranduil rose and left the room. And for the first time then, Legolas was really alone.

Time passed, and all was quiet. It was the sea he noticed then.

TBC


	65. The Effect of the Ring

_**Author's Note: **_Thank you to everyone who most recently reviewed this story. You have been most gracious in your praises and it means so much to me that you have liked what I wrote. I'm especially pleased to see old friends returning to this tale just as I'm delighted that a number of people have added me to their Fave's Lists. This story seems to be gaining a bit of attention lately, and it really feels good. In fact, I went on a bit of a writing rampage. So I'm pleased to say I have not only this new chapter to give you but I also have the next chapter written. I'll post it in about a week. Hooray!

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part IV: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Four: The Effect of the Ring_

It was a curious thing to view, almost elflike in the way it appeared. He stroked the trunk of the withered oak, whispering quiet words as if speaking to a dear friend while gazing into the treetops above, appearing appreciative of the broad limbs and reaches the tree had. Thranduil had seen this as commonplace among the Sylvan elves of his kingdom, but never had he witnessed such behavior from a dwarf, for that is what he saw and what drew his attention to the scene. Gimli was talking to the trees.

Or at least that is how it would appear if Thranduil hadn't realized it was Mithtaur's thick trunk that Gimli stroked. So, no, not a tree but with an Ent did the dwarf keep company. Thranduil supposed that was a bit more realistic. He knew the behavior of dwarfs well enough to know they did not commune with the trees in such fashion. But a private conversation with an Ent might appear differently, he supposed. Thranduil had been prepared to leave it at that, to move on to other things had Gimli not looked up, noticing his audience. It was the sudden shift in his behavior that made the scene stand out.

The dwarf scowled, backing away from the Ent, muttering something beneath his breath before marching away. He considered following, but the Ent then turned and looked at Thranduil with sad eyes, and the elf could not help but feel pity for him.

Gazing about, he looked to see where Mithtaur's keepers were. At a short distance away, Fangorn communed in a copse of young mallorns. On the opposing side, also a distance away, he spotted Lendglad leaned back into an open patch of sunlight, enjoying the brief rays of winter light that baked his lifted limbs. So though the Ent was guarded, it appeared he had the luxury to roam. Yet he stayed rooted and it was Thranduil who decided to approach the old grey tree.

"That was a strange sight I saw. It looked as if you had been befriended, so deep did your conversation appear. Does the dwarf make regular visits to you?" he asked.

"No friendship is this," the Ent sighed, and if there was a physical equivalent to hanging his head in misery, Mithtaur did so then. "Or if that is the same as friendship with a dwarf, I would have no part of it. He-he-he blames me for what has come of his friend. He berates me daily. That is what you saw."

"It looked rather intimate and dear to my eyes," the elf countered. "Why do you allow it if it is painful to bear?"

"Have I a choice? Hroom. Hroomhroom. It is part of my punishment, or so I perceive. For he is right to feel disdain for me. What I did to his friend, your son, was-was-was pure evil."

"Yet I bear you no ill will," Thranduil pointed out. And then recognizing the Ent's downcast mood, he reached out to touch Mithtaur, his gesture gentle, almost mimicking the dwarf from a moment before. He wondered then if he would be misunderstood for it, but the Ent seemed unaffected. His eyes were still cast down.

"You should you should you should. Hooooom. I cannot claim to be completely out of my wits in all the time I did Sauron's bidding," the Ent proclaimed somberly.

"Nor was I," Thranduil affirmed, stepping back. And this was true, for though, when he had been under the influence of the Ring, he had been aware of his wits, there were parts of time when he had no memory of his actions. It seemed most of his crimes against Legolas had been while he had been in such a state.

He and Gimli had discussed this and he was sure the dwarf had concurred on his assessment that sympathy should be given the Ent. He did not understand why now Gimli would berate the Ent, nor how the dwarf could act in such dichotomy, seeming so reassuring in gesture but abusive in word. Regardless, Thranduil would not change. He had come to feel sympathy for the Ent's plight and refused to feel anger for him any further.

He would try to lift Mithtaur's spirits if he could, for indeed the Ent had his peers' judgment to face when they returned. Thranduil had already confessed before his kind and found them to be generous. Still, his story was not the same as Mithtaur's, and he did not know how kind the Ents might be. "I have been told His influence was strong on me, and I do not doubt it was on you as well. For that I can see your side. I could plead with the dwarf on your behalf if you would wish it."

"Nay," Mithtaur declined refusing his kindness. "I would not ask this of you. Truthfully I cannot say-say-say I would do other than what I did given chance again."

"I doubt that is true," Thranduil countered, but then shrugged and said, "But since reversing time is not a possibility, I would say we must muster on as best we can with what we have presently."

The Ent seemed to ponder this a moment before speaking again. "You are optimistic and do not share my fate. I am to be treed." The last notes of his words were almost a cry, forlorn and desolate. With them, Fangorn stirred, drawing his gaze to them and staring for a long minute before turning back to the saplings. Lendglad too drew his eyes open to watch them. Mithtaur noticed their attention and drew his eyes down somberly. When he next spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. "If not for my duty here, I should have fled already."

"Your duty?" Thranduil asked.

"The draught. It seems no others have done as I in digging a well. It was a by-product of my rattled mind it seems. But my time comes to an end and my task will be no more soon." He looked to the place Fangorn had taken up near the mallorns and Thranduil followed his gaze. In the last few days that Ent lord had begun to dig a well of his own in that locale, and Thranduil supposed that meant a new font might be springing forth soon.

"Your mind seems well enough now," Thranduil pointed out, ignoring the Ent's other assertion.

"Hence my protests to being treed," Mithtaur answered. And it was true, for the Ent had been cooperative and pliant in his befuddled state but had grown restless and argumentative as he had recovered his wits.

Thranduil could not argue with the Ent. For though Legolas was no longer fed the draught to quell the effects of sea-longing, both he and Galadriel partook of the drink to assuage their symptoms. In Thranduil's case, he had need of less for he still had Nenya in his possession. But Galadriel indeed seemed to be suffering the sea's effects, and so the well was used mostly by her.

Thranduil thought about Galadriel's decline in these last many weeks since their return from Fangorn Forest. She carried about her a lost gaze and it seemed she had made a decision to journey on to Aman. That had created a shift in mood in the Golden Wood, and many of the elves seemed to have decided they would join her. In truth, few seemed to be noticing much of the elf king, his son or the Ents. All was politic, and the people's attention was focused on the looming departure of their Lady and the entourage that would go with her.

Of course, Thranduil had again and again offered the return of Nenya to her, but Galadriel declined it, claiming this her fate. As might be guessed, Celeborn was not pleased with her refusal of the Ring or decision to leave, for like Thranduil, he was not yet strongly drawn to the far lands of the Ainar. Yet faced with the choices that cuivëar offered, he could do nothing other than comply with her wishes. He was the one who encouraged her to drink the Draught so as to persevere for a time longer.

Drawing the conversation back to Mithtaur, Thranduil then asked, "What do you mean you would flee?"

"The alternative to being treed is banishment," Mithtaur said, gazing out beyond the treeline. "I have thought on it, and I have decided. As soon as my duty is done here, I will choose that path."

"You will go?" Thranduil asked. "But where?"

"It has been suggested that I choose the other side of the mountains. I have heard also that there are lands to the north that might accommodate me," the Ent said.

"Would they not follow you?" Thranduil questioned, look to both Fangorn and Lendglad as he did.

"It is possible," Mithtaur said in reply, "but I think it likely Treebeard will stay so as to keep the Lady and her folk supplied of the drink. Sweettree might pursue, but it is possible also that he will let me go without bother. I am not needed. I have not been for a long time."

Thranduil truly did feel for the Ent. He could not help but empathize for the desperation he must feel and so tried to counter him. "I do not concur. Let me speak on your behalf to Fangorn. Let me see if there is something that might be done for your sake. I would not have you set out on your own any more than I would see you treed. I can only imagine the loneliness of either choice," Thranduil answered.

"Do as you wish," the Ent said, but he offered no more, seeming resigned to his fate of one form of isolation or another. He turned then and sauntered away leaving the path that Gimli had taken open to the elf.

He quickly spotted Gimli. He had made way to the opening in the glade where the green spring flowed. The glow of the water reflected off the dwarf's face, casting him in an eery light. The chill was evident in the puff of fog that flowed from the dwarf's lips, his breath warm and the air cold. And that too seemed to glow that unworldly color. The dwarf was backing away from the water's edge. He seemed to tuck something beneath the folds of his cloak, moving furtively. Thranduil did not see what it was that he secreted away, but it piqued his curiosity. He marched the short distance so as to query his intent. He also meant to plead leniency of the dwarf's opinion on Mithtaur's behalf.

By the time he came upon him, Gimli had taken up a spot on a fallen tree. He was gazing intently at the spilling water. The glow no longer reached him. Instead a strange stillness resided in him, and it seemed in his settling that he had become as solid and implacable as a rock. It was only in the last weeks that Thranduil had come to notice this quality about the dwarf, his firmness, his ability to move into absolute stillness. Yet with the elf's approach, he startled, becoming fluid, moveable once more.

He smelled of the earth, a scent that seemed to pervade from his pores, and again, though Thranduil had noticed this before, it was striking how pervasive the scent was now.

The dwarf patted a spot on the tree beside him, inviting the king to sit with him. Thranduil settled in, breathing the cool chill air of winter into his lungs.

"Tale is told that you speak disparagingly of Mithtaur," he began.

The dwarf seemed unmoved by the query. He simply took up his gaze, once more looking at the water that poured from the Ent font. "Should I not?" he replied. "His actions warrant such, would you not say?"

Thranduil chose to be complacent and unmoved, but he remembered when they had first come to Lothlorien and the dwarf had spoken a different plea. "My belief was that you felt pity for him."

The dwarf conceded, frowning as he gazed down into his lap. But then he raised his head, glancing at Thranduil from the corner of his eye. "I may have once, but the longer I suffer the distance of my friend, the greater I push for one to whom I may place blame."

Thranduil's answer was light, obvious. "Put the blame on Sauron," he laughed.

Gimli scowled. "Sauron is already damned. I need something more tangible upon which to focus my ire."

Again, Thranduil tried to be blithe, turning his reply toward amusement. "Blame Legolas then for refusing to believe you real," he shrugged. Of course this was not a light subject, but Thranduil felt it necessary they try to laugh, lest all would lose hope.

But Gimli looked at Thranduil with incredulity. The lack of humor was evident as he frowned, nodding to Thranduil's hand laid flat upon his thigh and said, "Perhaps it is time you removed that Ring, for I think it muddles your mind. You would have me feel discontent for your son, who among all has done the least yet suffered the most?"

This was not the response Thranduil expected, for despite the close friendship that existed between his son and this dwarf, he could rely upon Gimli to make a disparaging remark on the younger elf's behalf whenever prompted, the moment serious or not. Thranduil took no insult to it, for he knew the dwarf's affections. Yet here in this moment there was no humor.

Thranduil replied soberly, with concern. "I have no desire to see Legolas blamed, but I think your feelings displaced. Mithtaur cannot be held responsible for his acts anymore than the Mírnen elves can be held responsible for the deception laid upon Celebrimbor. All were manipulated in this great play of history."

The stolid quality in the dwarf remained. Resolutely Gimli said, "I will not forgive him."

Now it was Thranduil's turn to frown. He answered, "Then perhaps it is you who needs to remove his Ring. Your mood certainly grows dim, and that is a sure sign of bad effect."

Gimli held up both hands before him and wiggled his fingers. They were bare. "Do you see It gracing my hand? Nay? Then be assured that my mind is my own." Then he turned to the king and looked him in the eye. His demeanor was all seriousness. Firmly he said, "Though I am angry with the Ent, I refuse to give up on your son. I must admit though that my return home is waylaid as a result. Perhaps my mood is bad because of that. I miss my own kind. I miss my friend. If I could give him but a bit of this drink I think I could convince him the truth of what he now lives." But in saying this, he nodded to the Ent font while simultaneously patting a hand to his side. Lifting his cape ever so slightly, Thranduil saw the dwarf concealed a travel flask there, and he realized Gimli was allowing him in on a secret. He had taken a sample of the water and meant to give the drink to Legolas.

Wary and irate, Thranduil countered him, saying, "You know Gilfonel has disallowed the draught."

The dwarf let his hand drop, but a scowl turned his lips and he looked away in disgust. "I know Gilfonel would rather Legolas conceded to his sea-longing than come back to his right thinking. But I do not approve the methods by which this healer practices, for Legolas indeed was beginning to believe. Or at least he was appreciating things that were parts of a reality before that elf healer intervened."

And indeed, though Legolas's health had seemingly improved with the initial use of the Draught, his reason had started to decline once he became more cognizant of the world around him. It seemed in being told the truth about what had happened, Legolas had retreated into himself, refusing to speak except for the most cursory comments, growing somber and withdrawn as the days and weeks went by. He continued with his therapeutic treatment in order to recover use of his leg, but he had pulled away from anything else that might draw out his wit or companionship. In this, none knew what went on in his mind. As much as Thranduil wished his son's recovery, Legolas would not speak to him or even the dwarf. And this hurt them all the more, for each had done his utmost to rescue and save Legolas from a worse fate.

It seemed Gimli had like thoughts, for he grew wistful, his brow lightening as he said, "How I wish that Aragorn was here. Or Elrond even. Yes, Elrond would see my way of thinking."

But Thranduil was not moved. Despite his own disappointment in Legolas's progress, he had agreed to Gilfonel's methods. And though Gimli had grumbled disapproval, he had not seemed the type to take matters of healing into his own hands. Thranduil had no intentions of being complicit in this, but queried further to hear the dwarf's debate. "How so?" he asked.

Here the dwarf turned, drawing Thranduil's attention with his earth brown eyes. His voice was deep, mellow, resolved, convinced. "I did not see it wrong that we repeated the tale of what came to Legolas. I would have told it to him time and time again if I thought it would help, for was that not the method Sauron used? You saw the results." He squeezed Thranduil's hand, and the elf found himself moved, almost agreeing with the words. "Yet what Gilfonel has chosen as method is more like dropping him into a pool of icy water. Predictably, Legolas is neither appreciative of the shock, nor accepting that it has been done for his own good. Instead, he romances what was lost and now believes more than ever that the fantasy was better than this reality. He rejects what is done to him out of stubbornness and pain. And he suffers the sea as much as his heart."

Thranduil blinked, dropping his head to stare at the dwarf's hands firmly holding to him. Somehow he felt comforted, as if the dwarf's surety had leeched into him. He found himself nodding in agreement as he said, "It may be you are right. I had not thought the method taken before in using the Draught as merciful, but I see now the rightness of this." He could not say with any certainty that Gimli's assertions were true, but his suspicions were rife. A distant gaze and expression of yearning were prevalent features on Legolas's fair face in moments when it was not marred with doubt, anger, or anguish.

The dwarf then withdrew, as if to surrender, and Thranduil knew if he said no, Gimli would give up his pursuit. "It matters not. I am dismissed, as I am no healer. Still, if I could, I would give that drink to Legolas again."

Thranduil was wary, uncertain then of his feelings. A part of him wanted to agree with the dwarf and give him his approval to give Legolas the drink once more, but another part was not willing to go against the healer's wishes. Cautiously he asked, "You keep company with him. Have you had any success in drawing him out without it?"

"Nay. And though you keep company too I venture you have had as little success to show as I." Thranduil knew Gimli had tried at all hours, watching Legolas eat, exercise, sleep. The elf might not speak with either of them, but neither had surrendered their efforts. Here again, the dwarf gazed at him with his deep, earthy eyes, and Thranduil could not help but be moved. "Yet, as I said, I will not give up on him."

The compassion was enough, and Thranduil found himself convinced. He nodded in assent to the unasked question. "Celeborn tells me that he just needs time, that he needs to pull all the pieces together. He feels he is mending a broken heart even if the bonding was not consummated as in a real joining. I have to think that, because there was no actual bond, he will recover. But for Legolas it still hurts." Glancing sidelong at the Ent pool and then back to the dwarf, Thranduil dipped his chin and gave an affirmative nod. "Whatever it is that will ease his misery, I will approve."

Gimli smiled as he looked upon the water flowing with the slight glow of green that somehow magically was emitted from the elixir. Once more he reached over and lightly placed a hand on Thranduil's arm. He then murmured, "I suppose I should warn you that if I can yet make him understand the reality of his circumstance, I would convince him to journey away from here as swiftly as he is fit."

This statement startled Thranduil. Putting the deception aside, he had hoped to find a way toward healing the rift that had been created between himself and his son. A possessive spike pierced his heart as the thought of having Legolas pulled from him once more settled in his mind. His brow furrowed as he said, "You would take him away?"

Neither the dwarf's expression nor the direction of his gaze changed. Yet his voice seemed passive as he explained, "I think it necessary he recognize nothing has changed… to see it, to feel it. Some distance may help."

And the distance in their feelings would remain, despite the efforts he had made to correct them by pouring healing love into his son's soul. Thranduil could not help but stammer his objection. "I had… I had hoped he might wish to come back to his homeland. With me." Yet a part of him felt weak, as if he had no reason to complain.

The dwarf was reassuring then, the touch of his hand growing heavier, rooting him. "By and by that will come, but he promised, ever this wayward adventure began, to travel with me to my home. And if I can achieve his trust once more, I will do just that." Gimli's eyes were upon him, and Thranduil could not look away. What the dwarf was doing was opposite his intent, but he found himself concurring to Gimli's wishes. "I think it will help heal him to return him to where it was we began. Do I have your permission to steal him away?"

In that instant, all the crimes and wrongs he had done to his son came back to him and he was reminded once more of how forceful and resolute Legolas had been over the years in resisting Thranduil's wishes. Saddened by his memories, he replied, "Do you ask me as his sire? Legolas is no child. You need not my permission, only his willingness, for he would not bow to me l unless I commanded it as his king." He bowed his head in acceptance of this fate, recognizing that if there was any way to win his son back it must start in his willingness to let him go. "I will not do such to him again lest my kingdom required it. Go. Take him."

The dwarf smiled, his countenance gleaming as the sun passed from under a cloud shining down on him. He seemed to be garbed all in gold and copper in that brief moment, the light reflecting off his ruddy beard, catching in his eyes. Even his hands, as he drew them back, seemed to shine in amber light.

Still, Thanduil drew up his own height, remembering a bit of himself as Gimli withdrew. He confessed then, "I would be untruthful though if I said this did not hurt, Still, now that the fear of his fading has passed, I have had time to ponder the greater good. Legolas and I have all of eternity to mend our ways." And this was true, for Thranduil was immortal and Gimli was not. In this land or further on in Elvenhome over the sea, somehow he and Legolas would unite. This he felt with certainty.

"That Ring indeed has affected you, my lord," Gimli said with a smile, gazing down at the Ring adorning the elf's hand, and Thranduil wondered if it was true. He certainly was more forgiving and selfless with Nenya upon his hand.

"Perhaps It has," he agreed. "But to the better, I think. I am willing to be patient. My crimes have been long. I do not expect to be redeemed of them immediately… if even I can expect to be forgiven partly." And here he asserted himself, remembering that as much as he could be giving, he must not forget himself. Generosity seemed to be a trait the Ring encouraged, but he was yet Thranduil, and he must remember that too. "Yet do me one favor before I grant you my 'blessing,' as you put it. Bring him home to me when done in your lands. I fight against my jealousy, but I am not entirely free of it. I would try as you do to bring him home with me now. Yet I know your friendship with him is greater than mine. He does not need the coddling and brooding I would give him. He needs life and free air. You have more to offer than I. Still, I would see him when he is willing."

Gimli's expression grew tender then. "It is agreed. Are you disheartened though? I remind you that I have procured nothing from him yet." And Thranduil knew the dwarf gave him opportunity to change his mind. Gimli's generosity was present also.

Thranduil smiled wanly in acknowledgement of this fact. He could not help but feel defeated despite his noble words. "You will," he conceded. "It is clear you are not easily dissuaded. I do not doubt you will succeed in due time."

The dwarf bowed his head slightly, and then took his leave. And as he left, so too did the sun. The light grew dim and Thranduil felt a chill run up his spine. Shivering slightly, he pulled his cloak about him. His mood seemed to lessen as well, and he tried to discern what might create the ascent of his heart. Keening his ears to the Song, he sent out his spirit touch to his son, perceiving his presence still. That lifted him slightly, but though Legolas was there, he could not shake the apprehension that began to settle over him. There was a change in the Music. He had not noticed it before. But then, understanding the Music was not a strength Thranduil had. Still, he felt it. A dark note was present, and though it was subtle, low and slow, the elf somehow thought it might grow if left unlooked for. He turned his head so as to speak to Gimli of it, but the dwarf was gone from all view, faded as was the sun.

TBC


	66. Going Home

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part IV: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Five: Going Home_

There was something wrong with him. He felt as if he had be reborn a different elf, or perhaps not even an elf.

Physically he was crippled, and for an elf that is a terrible trial. Keeping his head and his frustration from spilling out on those around him in the countless hours of exercise he undertook was a test alone in his patience, and he had not always done well with it. He raged over his limits, sometimes refusing to participate in the tedious and painful practices that had been designed to "help him." He saw little progress and he was not encouraged to carry on with these therapeutic measures.

But his physical limitations were just an aspect of his mental conditioning, and in that area he was far worse. He could not put the pieces together in a way that made sense, or more, that favored him. If he was to believe everything told to him, his plight was part of a long line of evils orchestrated to bring him to a pinnacle point of heartbreak. Even in the bewildering maze of possibilities and united threads, he found that too impossible to be true. It would mean his whole life had been a series of conspiracies and manipulations, ruses, and that he had been the ignorant fool who had guilelessly been led through them. He did not think he was so stupid. To accept what was told of him meant acknowledging myriad weaknesses to his faculties. He was a warrior by training and was skilled at foreseeing actions and reacting in kind; he was not a novice unconditioned to the movements of the pieces in the game. Why would he believe his part nothing more than that of a pawn, capable only of moving in one direction, one short step at a time?

And for this newly crafted way he was told he must now see his abused life, he found himself angered and wary. He was painted in fury, feathered in distrust, and ultimately unwilling to accept the fate bestowed upon him. He would not believe it, could not believe it, for doing so meant believing that his entire life to be fraudulent and not of his own mastery. He was told to believe nothing of Mirnen.

Illness made it easier to conclude he was the victim of a falsehood. Shadows lurked in the corners of his eyes, and he felt jarred, paranoid, as if something sinister might jump out at him at any moment if he did not remain diligent. Physically he felt fevered though by touch no temperature rose to the level of his skin. A headache thrummed behind his eyes, though if he tried to pinpoint the exactness of that pain he could not for it would dissipate immediately when he sought it. And when he closed his eyes, he felt as if someone watched him from the dark side of his lids, someone uninvited and perverse.

And yet he could not put his finger on what might be wrong with him except to sum it all up to this new "awakening." In truth, he thought perhaps the awakening was a falsehood and that in reality he lived in deep slumber. Mortals called it _dreaming _when your mind carried you away from place and time and presented you with circumstances beyond your control or understanding. Legolas had chosen to believe this is what had happened to him though he knew elves certainly did not dream in a mortal sense. Yet if the magic existed that put the elves of Mírnen in an invisible realm, others must also. Legolas did not have to understand fully what had transported him to this place to realize there were things in this world beyond his knowing.

He occupied himself by looking for evidence that aided his belief. Of course he was torn. A part of him desired parts of what he saw. He missed Gimli. And Thranduil. Nay, not Thranduil. He missed having a father, which is what Thranduil appeared to be transformed to. The elf residing in this world did not often leave Legolas's side, but he did not hover. He simply was there for comfort, his eyes showing deep concern, ready to serve, aid, love whenever Legolas should require it. Thranduil, for the first time in any years that Legolas could recall, was a father. And Legolas could not conceive such a huge change coming over the elf.

Gimli was altered too. His humor was intact which made it harder for Legolas to see through him, and on occasion, despite himself, a smirk or laugh would escape Legolas when no one might be looking. But that was not enough to make Legolas believe the dwarf real. There was something different about him. At times in their uneasy companionship Gimli seemed strangely calm, even. That was not right. Gimli had always been brusque, impatient, reacting to the moment and not one to dwell on contemplative insights. As he was now, he reminded Legolas of a cat, patient and waiting, deceitful and planning. All of this added to Legolas's reasons for denying this world as a reality.

It did not matter that the sea now haunted him. He foolishly had given away his thoughts in revealing that part of the deception and he knew he should expect no less than for the sea-longing to come to him as a result. Besides, the sea-longing now was accompanied by the feeling of darkness that he could not seem to escape. It too was different from how he remembered it.

The one thing that was consistent from his time before in Mírnen was the pain he felt in his leg. No matter the amount of exercise he partook to heal it, it still hurt. And because the pain yet remained, he felt this was the thing that truly connected him to his former time. It had existed as equally in Mírnen as it did now. And more importantly, it had NOT existed in his times PRIOR to Mírnen, at least not in any semblence that matched this extreme. They – these phantoms that insisted this world was his life - could not mask that. And because of that, he felt certain that Faeldaer was there somewhere on the other side of this illusion.

He need only refuse life as it was presented to him now and he was certain he would meet up with Faeldaer once more. And with that though, he recalled his long, elegant, golden lover. Oh, but he missed Faeldaer's smile, his warmth, his touch.

His body responded to the thought. It was morning, and newly awake to the day, his arousal was there. This too was evidence of the changes this world produced. He had never experienced such physical neediness before in his life. That was not to say he had not experimented with his own body, but the ache to do so with the regularity he now lived had never been there before. In his brooding about rebirth, he could claim it to be a sign of darkness, but the part of him that fostered the notion of "dreams" chose instead to believe it was because the love he shared with Faeldaer had been left incomplete, the consummation unfulfilled.

Whatever it was, he wanted it.

His love was new, he told himself. If he had remained in Mírnen – No! He banished that thought – _When_ he returned to Mírnen, he could expect to want nothing more than this type of physical excitement for a good number centuries before settling into spiritual equanimity with his mate. Such was the pattern of elves as he had witnessed it, and _when he returned_, Legolas looked forward to all phases of his love's blossoming. Just the thought of it stirred his desire even more and he decided he would act on it.

Legolas glanced to the door to make sure it was closed before he turned his back to it, secure in the knowledge that he was alone and would not be disturbed. Even without speaking his wishes, those tending him had concluded that they would not enter his room when the door was closed without the courtesy of a forewarning knock. Now that they had concluded he was not about to fade into self-pitying misery, they guarded his privacy as any other soul in this realm might find it. And though they were but figments of imagining, he appreciated the solitude he was allowed.

He rolled to his side and closed his eyes. His recollections always came back to him better when he closed his eyes. Not for the first time since he had come to a solid realization of this world did he use his keen memory to draw personal pleasure to his body. There were those among elfkind who used their recall to live and live again their sorrow or their shame, but Legolas had determined what he could remember best is what he would use to keep himself happy until he would be allowed to return to Mírnen. And what he remembered best was Faeldaer.

Like slipping into a warm bath where the temperature of the out matches that of the in, he floated into reverie. Visions danced before him, but he settled on sensation first, allowing that to create the fantasy he would create. He was not disappointed as tender fingers found their way caressing his body, dancing over his torso, starting at his throat and moving over his chest, down his ribs, across his tight belly. And though he knew it was his own doing in this, he imagined Faeldaer's hands stirring his body in this way. Delicate and determined, his ghost lover rubbed the nubs of his nipples, pressing firmly into his chest before wending down to his waist, his hips, his thighs. He sighed as his arousal strained to these new touches, and he imagined Faeldaer hovering above him, his hair creating a curtain of coppery gold around them, his smile sweet, but his expression wanton and needy.

Legolas could hear his breath quickening as his desires grew though he bit back the moans that threatened to spill should he completely lose himself. He was quite aware he was yet in the healing wards, and should anyone with a keen ear pass and hear the sounds of his lovemaking, they might mistake them for cries of pain. He wanted no company for this, none save his fantasy lover, his Faeldaer.

His hands stroked first the insides of his thighs, then higher into tender flesh that tightened with the excitement of want. The length of his erect need grew with his strokes, and he imagined this to be Faeldaer's while at the same time it was his. Faeldaer's expression grew pleading and pleasured simultaneously, just as Legolas was sure his own composure shifted. "You want this," he could hear whispered in his ear as a tongue and lips then came and nipped along his throat.

It was both a question and a statement and required no answer, but just the query heightened his desire and involuntarily the word, "Yes," slipped out between his own haggard breaths. His voice was low and barely registered sound. Yet softly he said it again. "Yes."

He repeated the word numerous times as Faeldaer continued to rub his yearning length. And like a call and response, he played both parts in his mind, intoning the question and reply as his need increased. His heart was pounding and he felt heated and alive, building toward climax, toward pure pleasure.

At last he spilled, arching back as he stifled a moan of ecstasy, allowing the crescendo to vault his spirit to a place that was almost beyond the reaches of body. He drifted back then, relaxing into the sudden comfort of muscles gone slack, all anxiety gone from him. He felt tired, and he rolled to his back as he luxuriated in the peaceful calm that always came after such an exercise in self-pleasure. The heavy smell of musk permeated the air, but he did not grow concerned for he knew it would dissipate soon enough. With the door closed, he was safe to relax in the euphoric afterglow of his lovemaking.

He glanced to his left, as if compelled to look there. A cup enameled in greens and golds sat on the side table, beautiful and unique for the intricate pattern upon it. Beads of moisture ran down its sides conveying the cool drink within its walls. Beside it a pitcher with matching droplets gracing its sides sat. Legolas found his throat felt suddenly parched, in need of drink, as if the briny taste of the sea and the ache of that longing had painted his tongue and lips. He reached out and drained the delicate cup without thinking, reaching for the pitcher to pour more. It was then he heard something that made him start.

A throat was cleared. A deep voice. Rumbling. And with that he knew that there was someone present with him in this room!

He cast his eyes over his shoulder as he pulled the sheets around him, startled to be found naked and in the aftermath of his sexual pleasure. But it was no elf that was present. It was worse. It was Gimli.

Fury made him sit up, his eyes wild with rage. "Have I no leave to privacy? How dare you enter my room without making your presence known!"

But the dwarf did not look at him. He stared out into space, his face impassive. "Are you not thirsty?" he asked.

And indeed, Legolas was. Suddenly, horribly, the thirst was there, charring his lips and the back of his throat into something dry as paper. He turned away, reaching for the pitcher, pouring more water into the cup as his hands shook. He did not know if they quivered from anger or illness, but he gulped the drink down regardless, his need to sate his thirst immense. And then he poured another, his parched throat finally slaked on this cup. He slammed the cup down, the table rocking slightly under the force of his anger. "What do you want?" he asked, not bothering to look at the dwarf.

Gimli's voice was even, untroubled by the elf's rage. "You would only have need to be angry with me if you thought this moment real."

The room began to spin then, as if Gimli's words created the sensation, and Legolas grappled with the bedding, his hand slipping to the table and toppling the cup in his awkward move. He fell back into the bed but the room continued to swirl around him. "What – what have you done to me?" he mumbled, trying to make sense of the dizzying spell and the queasy feeling it brought on.

"None of this is real. It is all just a part of your illness," the dwarf went on, rising and coming to stand next to the bed, placing a calming hand on Legolas's forearm.

"What illness?" Legolas asked through grit teeth as he adjusted his breath to keep up with the disturbing sensation of being unbalanced. The rolling sensation was settling out, and he turned to look at the dwarf. Yet he did not seem as Gimli. There was something strange about him. Though his eyes looked at Legolas, they also seemed to look through him.

"You have been ill for some time," the dwarf said in reply. "We have been trying to save you. In your heart you know this."

And it was true, for Legolas had not reconciled himself to Faeldaer's sudden disappearance and this disorienting world that seemed real but could only be if he was willing to abandon the ones he had come to love. He closed his eyes as the world fully stilled, but he was surprised when that same heavy feeling he had experienced minutes before in the aftermath of his self-pleasure came over him again. Just beyond the other side of his lids he thought perhaps he could see Faeldaer.

But he was wary and he felt that dark sense of being watched again. "Who has been trying to save me?" he asked. He feared to say too much lest this be another means of fooling him.

But the dwarf did not answer him directly. Instead he said, "I know where Faeldaer is. I can take you to him if you like."

Legolas lifted his head then, pushing past the heavy lethargy he felt. "Where is he? I need to see him." The calm seemed to penetrate a part of his demeanor, for though he would rise, it felt as if the core of his body had melted into the bedding, as had his mind. He thought vaguely he should be disturbed by that fact, but in a way it made him feel more solid for the deep heaviness of it. Though he could rise, he felt luxuriant and less agitated. A calming peace settled over him, despite the urgency of his words.

"One thing at a time," Gimli admonished in that strangely passive way. "Tell me first how you feel."

"I feel…" He was about to say that he felt ecstatically drugged, but that was not right, for the instant he thought it was the instant in which the sensation disappeared. He could move. He could speak. Had he the notion to do it, he could sing for he felt light, lifted. Wrapping the sheets around his body, Legolas sat up. He felt fine. Better than fine, he felt well.

And then he realized something was missing and he searched through his mind to decipher this part of the riddle. He then recognized what it was that elevated him so. "The sea!" he finally said. "It is gone."

"Aye, it is gone. That is the first sign of healing. The sea-longing these dream specters about you have conjured need not be a bother any longer."

And Legolas nodded, testing it in his mind. He visualized white gulls and the crashing boom of waves, but nothing of the weighted sorrow that were a part of cuivëar welled up in him. He felt young suddenly, carefree and lithe.

Turning to the dwarf, he looked again on one he might have thought to be his friend, studying him. Physically there was nothing altered about Gimli, yet unlike the dwarf he spoke as if he read Legolas's thoughts. Could it be the dwarf in this "dream" was also his friend? "You think them specters?" he asked warily.

"Of course they are… I am!" the dwarf laughed, throwing himself in with a wave of his hand. "You have recognized all along that this is nothing more than a dream. How could it not be? The evidence is clear! And through your will, your refusals, you have the ability to make all the anguish you have experienced end and come back to the world you love," Gimli said as he turned and took his place on the chair as he had before. Legolas nearly laughed aloud then. He had thought just that, had he not?

Gimli's eyes took on that distant look again, and if Legolas had thought him real, he would have been frightened. But he found himself nodding in agreement, wanting to believe the truth the dwarf spoke. Yet his brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate on what Gimli said.

"What do I need to do?" Legolas asked, desperate to learn how he could bend all with his will.

"I will show you," Gimli said, and with these words he looked Legolas squarely in the eye. "You must come with me. We must leave this place."

A soft rap on the door startled him. He quickly turned to see one of the aides peering in. Legolas could yet smell the scent of sex in the air and he knew this elf must too. He would have been embarrassed, what with his state of undress and the dwarf's presence in the room, but he reminded himself that this was just a dream. He chose to ignore the humility. He looked at Gimli instead.

It seemed the aide sought Gimli anyway. "Forgive my intrusion," he said, "but Lord Gimli, I was told I must ask you if you know of the whereabouts of the Ent, Mithtaur. He disappeared in the night."

The dwarf blinked then, and his demeanor shifted. In an instant he seemed to transform into the spritely character Legolas had known in his days before. Gimli's face was set in surprise. "Disappeared, you say? I know nothing of this. Where would he go? Were not Treebeard and Sweettree to be his minders? Should they not know this?"

"They were guarding him and yet he managed to slip past them in the night. He is nowhere to be found, and none seems to know his whereabouts. Some thought you might know as you were seen speaking with him yesterday," the aide said.

"Thranduil also spoke with him. Perhaps he knows, for I do not," Gimli shrugged.

"Very well, my lord," the aide said, glancing then at Legolas. He had the distinct feeling that the aide knew what he had done in the quiet of his privacy. And despite his choice to refuse belief in the dreamed up scenario, he still blushed. "Forgive my intrusion please," the aide said, this time looking at Legolas.

"What was that all about?" Legolas asked when the aide disappeared behind the closed door. He realized nothing mattered but the query that had interrupted them.

"What was what?" Gimli said, and he waved his hand as if to erase the scene. "You yet live in a dream. There will be distractions along the way." That blank look seemed to settle over his expression again, and Legolas almost felt comforted by it. Gimli acting as Gimli was confusing. But Gimli altered was something he could accept.

"Rise now," the dwarf commanded, "for we have work to do, plans to make. I would have you dress so I might know that you are fit to travel."

Again, wrapping the sheet about him, Legolas dropped his weight over the side of the bed, his feet touching the floor. Somehow he had forgotten the persistent pain in his leg. As he put weight on his left leg, the familiar pain from before screamed out at him. He hissed as it shot through the limb. In fact the pain was greater than it had been.

"That I can do nothing about," the dwarf said as he nodded to the offending appendage. "Your illness stems from that injury, and you will have to persevere through the ache of it if we are to see you returned."

"You said my will could make this end," Legolas pointed out, suddenly feeling trepidation. "Can it not end the pain?"

"It will, but we must return to the other side of this dream to truly attain that. The sea I can assuage, and I can also guide you back to your home, but the pain I cannot remove until the end. You have the tools the healers gave you?" He nodded to the crutches that had been constructed for his use. "Follow through on this day in your exercises and routines, but prepare yourself to travel this night. You are able to travel, are you not?"

Legolas would never admit that he was not, even on the worst of his days, and if it meant returning to Faeldaer, he would push aside any discomforts so as to speed up their reunion. "I am fit," he proclaimed. And in his mind he decided the pain in his leg was nothing compared to the joy he would have in returning to Mírnen.

"Good," the dwarf said, and then added, "I would urge you though to remain unchanged in the eyes of the others about you until we are underway. They are the nemesis in your dreams, and to fight them we must be covert."

So it was to be an adventure, Legolas thought. He had heard men tell of great travels they had taken in the throes of their dreams, fighting beasts and conquering terrible foes. He wondered if he was to take on such a dream as well. "I will speak nothing," he said.

The dwarf smiled as he rose to leave, but Legolas felt he must ask one last question. "Will you tell me where it is we go so I might know what we face?" He had no worries for raiment or weaponry. Somehow he felt these would be provided. But he did wish to know what he might anticipate.

"Where do we go? That is simple." Gimli turned then and crossed the room, coming to stand with his hand resting on the knob to the door. "I am to take you home." And with that he opened the door and quickly slipped away, his steps as noiseless as an elf's.

TBC


	67. Seed of Darkness

_**Dark Forest**_  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part IV: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Six: Seed of Darkness_

Thranduil had watched them leave. He was not alone in witnessing this. In fact there were many in the Lothlorien realm who had seen the odd pair of elf and dwarf leave. But it had been Thranduil who had called back the sentries and Haldir's wardens, allowing his son and companion to pass from the borders of the Golden Wood while riding upon the Rohan horse. True to Thranduil's pledge, the dwarf had been given leave to take Legolas away from these lands in hopes that a reunion with the world at large might make Legolas see the reality of life as it truly was. But it was a pledge Thranduil began regretting the moment he saw them make way to leave, and he wished mightily he could go back in time to withdraw it.

There was something niggling at the edges of his conscience. It warned him this was not right, that they should not leave. Yet Thranduil could not piece together real reason for this.

In private consult, the healers had said Legolas was well enough in body to carry on; it would be a while yet before he had full strength, but he could manage small treks without too much difficulty. In fact they were encouraging when Legolas began to work without crutch, saying his leg would gain mobility sooner if he did.

And in spirit Thranduil thought Legolas was somewhat healed too. At least there was no danger of immediate fading. True, his demeanor was short, dismissive, but all had concluded Legolas would return to himself once he recovered his place in time. After all he had been through, they assured, it would be difficult to simply accept the fact that time had indeed _not_ passed, that he had _not_ lived nearly a hundred years in a long forsaken lake realm, that in truth it had just been the span of a few weeks that he had been gone from them. Observed by those attending him, it seemed the passing of time was beginning to make sense to Legolas now.

Of course there was the sea-longing his son now had to contend with. Thranduil was not sure he could have sympathized with the effects of _cuivëar_ his son suffered before had he taken Nenya himself. The Ring had been greatly useful in reaching Legolas's spirit when his son had been dying of his heartache, but it brought with it the desire of the sea to Its wearer, and Thranduil found that each time he removed the Ring, the yearning grew substantially greater. Thranduil seemed to be more resilient, able to tolerate it, but he could not gainsay the effect of the sea on his son. Laeraniel, Legolas's mother, had after all not fared well when afflicted the same.

Still Thranduil had hope. Legolas had done well-enough in staving off the sea's call before this. He expected his son would maintain his resilience to the yearning for many years to come. And at present, Thranduil also had no qualms at disobeying Gilfonel's disapproval of use of the Ent draught to hinder the sea's call. In fact, the elf king enjoyed seeing the dwarf break the rules the Healer had set. Fortunately Gilfonel had not seemed to notice Gimli had done so, and Legolas's recovery in the last few days had been speedier as a result. That just proved the draught's effectiveness. Hypocrisy seemed clear to Thranduil, for when speaking of it out of context to Legolas's treatment, Gilfonel generally agreed that the draught, in small doses, could be beneficial. Galadriel herself was now using it as an elixir to help her cope with the _cuivëar_ that afflicted her. Still, he understood the Healer's reasoning; he just thought the time for that thinking had passed.

So while Legolas had grown stronger in body and spirit, his mood had shrunk, and Thranduil suspected that was at the heart of his niggling doubts. He knew he was deluding himself if he had thought Legolas would immediately come to forgive him his past once learning of all that had come at present, but he had hoped it might somehow forge an opening for the two to begin speaking again on small matters. Not true. Legolas had had little to say to Thranduil. Yet again, Legolas had had little to say to anyone, so he had tried to tell himself not to take his son's avoidance to heart. Still, it hurt and he wished he could have been given more opportunity to make repair.

Thranduil looked to where Legolas and Gimli had faded from his vision. He could feel Legolas's _fae_ as he departed and sensed the lightening of his spirit, as if the journey was something that eased his son's soul. He could not flaw those results, despite his own personal misery and he decided that the wariness he now experienced was a test to his soul to see if truly he had changed. For too many years he had been a manipulator of his son's fate. Surely it would be difficult to relinquish that, even if his regained place as his son's keeper had been temporarily had. He knew this. He had to let go.

He turned away then and let his feet guide him aimlessly through the wood. Time seemed purposeless as he walked. He toyed with the Ring in those hours, pulling It on and off, trying to decide if it helped or hindered his apprehensive mood. He thought perhaps It might be softening his concerns, but in fact It did the opposite. Wearing Nenya made him feel even more agitated. Still, he pressed on, trying to ignore his nameless worries and to sooth himself that now life could progress. He should leave the wood too, he decided. He should journey home.

He thought then of his people and what he had left behind. Had they missed him in these few months? He liked to think so, but he had to be honest about their need for him as king. Though he had suffered his son, he had tried to be a cautious and just ruler to his people. Yet somehow he felt a failure in this as well. Had he been the best he could have been? It was true he had been guided by the Ring through many of his years, but he had also asserted his will from time to time, and against the urges that came with the Ring, he had kept his son whole and his people safe for the most part. Granted, he could have followed Legolas's advice and sought a more direct attack upon the enemy. But in his mind he had found a middle ground to counter the Necromancer and the pervading darkness by sacrificing as few of his people as he could. His son was bold, and that might be right. But the cost would have been great, Thranduil was sure of that, had Legolas been allowed his plans. Thranduil had learned enough about war over the years to recognize the horrors of an ill-prepared attack. He had lived such, seen such. It was a part of the reason he had not relinquished complete trust in Legolas's war-prowess. His son simply did not know the destruction he might glean. Thranduil liked to think that perhaps his people understood what he saw and appreciated his protective caution.

At least, he consoled himself, some healing had come of this venture, even if it was not that between father and son. No, the healing was between he and his kindred. After all this time, he had come to forgive Galadriel, and he mused on that for a time. He saw now the sacrifice and the measures she had taken to aid him in his mission to find his son. He wondered then if, though he had intended this journey had been one to mend ways with his son, she had wished it to be one to mend ways with Thranduil. If so, she had succeeded. His heart was moved.

Without a purpose, he knew he must return some of what she had given him. He began to wander the forest then in search of her. As if realizing it for the first time, he noticed the lament-filled song of the Galadhrim in the air. So intent had been his mind he had not noticed that the music had begun, but it seemed to him then that they echoed his appreciation in their melodious harmonies. In their case though, the praises in their words were directed as a mourning tribute to her decision to part Arda. Suddenly he felt he knew what he must do, and more than taking company with her, he wished to see her, to speak to her about this decision. He found her where he thought he might: a generous bower had been established at that glade where the Ent font sprang.

His feet took him to that place where he had last spoken with Gimli about his abuse on Mithtaur. Short days after, the Ent had disappeared, and rather than departing in pursuit, Treebeard had taken up the part of the gnarled grey oak, finding the spirit within to dig a well of his own so as to keep the medicinal drink fresh and continuously flowing. Thanks to Yavanna that he did, for the drink had been Galadriel's salvation. Thranduil was not sure she could have survived otherwise. She had no Sindarin blood in her, and Thranduil saw how deeply the _cuivëar_ was taking its toll on her.

Starlight could be seen twinkling in the skies above, the winter forest bare but for those golden leaves of the Mallorn which seemed always to have some foliage donning their massive limbs. The dim light sparkled off of and between those great leaves, flickers of bronze and gold dancing with the brush of the wind through the branches. The cool blues of night were warmed by the bouncing rays, and the melody of song created a rhythm to the movement they made. Thranduil's eyes followed the dancing flickers, mesmerized. He was thoroughly startled when his eyes settled upon Galadriel's long figure in the shadows of her winter garden as he neared the bower.

She was turned away from him at first, her head haloed by the golden light, but as she turned, her beauty shown brightly, as if she herself was a source for light and that she was softening the darkness of the forest around her brow was marred and she had about her an air of sorrow and melancholy. He found his feet pulled him forward to her, and upon entering the bower in which she was kept, he took her hands in his. The fingers were cold and he clasped them between his to warm them. Yet despite this intimacy, she seemed to pay him little notice, and he wondered if she was caught up in the song or the longing. Probably both, he finally decided.

She started a moment later, as if not realizing he had taken and held her had. This was true testament in his mind to how far the _cuivëar_ had claimed her, for never had he seen her surprised by anything or anyone. This new flaw made her seem frailer still and almost he felt tender concern for her well-being in this. He was reminded that he had once regarded her always as this: gentle, passive, in need of a protector. But that had been in the days of his youth, when he had first known her and truly loved her. Now she was just ill, and he knew that. His pity harkened to his former feelings.

Forcing her to sit, he settled onto a bench next to her, its curved seat molding into the bends of the sweeping magnolia into which this bower was built. He turned his eyes on their surroundings, admiring the cage-like qualities of this shelter that had been made for her then. The branches criss-crossed to almost create walls. In truth, they only formed the corner posts for other pliable boughs, yet it all seemed as one living fortress.

"I was never one to admire the majesty of the wood before coming here," she said to him, her gaze was focused on the forest, as if in admiration for the change that comes to such a place as winter sets. He smiled, for it seemed she read his thoughts. He was unsure if she did so of her own talents or if it was purely coincidence that she should think the same as he had at that moment. Regardless, she continued. "My mind had always been on bigger things. Building cities, creating art, cultivating music. It wasn't until Celeborn and I came here in flight from Hithaeglir, that I came to appreciate how much of what I aspired to was already being done by these simpler Silvan folk."

She was admitting something to him then, and Thranduil felt flattered that her barriers were down. But it had been this way with Galadriel since relinquishing Nenya to him. She was still strong, but also less guarded, and he thought of her this way as so much more real. He came to think it might be that she saw no reason to hide behind a wall of contemplative thought or delicate manners anymore. He liked her like this.

"When my father chose to take up residence in the great Lasgalen forest, I was excited," Thranduil confessed, matching candor with like candor. "I thought the peoples there intriguing for their skills and craft. They were so clever in their ruggedness, brusque and swift and not beholding to courtesies or courtly manner. There was something admirable in their feral ways, and I wanted more than anything to adventure and learn with them. The forest was so boundless, so green." And too, his eyes caught upon memory, and he remembered his first early encounters with the wild folk of Greenwood. The Silvans. He could almost recall how exotic and savage they had appeared to him when he had first seen them, and then how beautiful and wise he came to regard them in a very short time.

Galadriel nodded, appreciating what it was he said. "I thought it strange that they did not bow to us when we first came. Arrogantly, I thought we were the superior to them. It was fortunate that I had Celeborn at my side then, for he had a better understanding of these people than did I. He said to me, 'Look at how they move, how they speak. They are quick and sly and understand better than you or I the voices of the Vala or the song of Ainur. They can mold nature to their whims.' And he was right. It was almost as if the very flow of the streams came at their behest, the shape of the wind as it laced through the trees..."

Thranduil smiled softly, recalling his own admiration for the Silvans of Greenwood, and their abilities to do just as she said. He remembered too the cunning beauty of Laeraniel, the allure of her song and how he had been attracted to her exotic nature. She was like a strange music that wrapped around his heart, his mind, his very spirit. She beguiled him with her mesmerizing foreignness, and in that moment he missed her to the very core of his soul. He felt his eyes sting. How we wished he had her consoling wisdom with him at this moment. All he could do was send his heart out to Legolas. But the expression was not returned. The bond was just as a parent to a child. Legolas was not meant to comfort his father.

Galadriel interrupted this thought, building on her own, saying, "I watched them build this bower, speaking to the trees, coaxing the limbs to wrap and wind in this intriguing fashion. I saw for all that we of the city had brought in knowledge and sophistication, the Silvans of this wood had dismissed as useless, superfluous."

He shook his melancholy away as he added, "We were both taught a thing or two by our subjects, it would seem."

"Your wife was a Green Elf, was she not?" Galadriel asked. "A Silvan maiden."

He smiled in memory. "She was. My son takes after her greatly."

"You will get him back," she said, and he realized she had reached into his thoughts once more. It seemed she did not need Nenya to do this after all.

She smiled and words came to his mind, confirming what he thought. _It is a skill I have gained over time_, he heard her say in his mind.

"Have you mastered too your foresight? For I believe that was a talent that was not yet true when last we spoke of it." He realized he sounded bitter, but it was more habit than fact, and he softened his voice as he added, "You do not know this about Legolas. You cannot know we will find mending, he and I."

"You are correct that I cannot know. Yet you do not give up hope, and in time he will see that," she said. "I know a thing or two about Legolas's nature, indeed about the nature of heartbreak and healing. So when I tell you this I do so not with the mirror but my experiences as a guide. I speak as a friend wishing to console you in your grief. You have done as you must and in time he will come to see how great your love for him is."

Thranduil smiled wryly, not certain he should believe this. He remembered the slights he had suffered in his youth, the anger he had born toward his own father. "I was terribly disappointed when my sire chose that I be fostered away in a great city instead of being allowed to learn the craft of my newfound brethren of the wood. He was appalled by the notion that I might find joy in those more vigorous pursuits. And though he applauded the accomplishments of those he ruled, he put me above them, determined that I be better than that. I do not think I ever forgave him that. My hurts were slight in comparison to what I did to my own son."

"But you loved your father regardless," she added.

He took a moment to think about that. That he should love his father was never a question. Of course he did. But that he loved him despite the error Oropher had made of relinquishing his son's rearing to that of distant kin was something he had never considered before. He had not stopped to think that his love might have been greater had he been allowed to live in Eryn Lasgalen as he had desired. He realized in fact that he could easily lay blame upon his father for the manipulation and deceptions he had fallen prey to while beyond Oropher's care, but it had never occurred to him to do such a thing. His life had unfolded as it was meant to, at least as far as Thranduil could see, and the paths left untraveled always would be that. The past could not be undone. "I loved him always," he admitted.

She did not say anything then, but the words seemed there anyway, as if pressed into his mind. _Legolas loves you regardless your failures to him. _That was enough to make his heart soar. These were words he longed to hear and feel and her generosity in bestowing them warmed him.

But then he saw her brow pinch and her hand reach to her heart, and he knew she was in pain. He recalled then why had come to see her. "I owe you so much," he said.

She shook her head and pointed to a cup sitting on the opposite window rail. "Would you bring that to me?"

He reached the cup in few steps and looked downed into the lightly tinted water that was the Ent-draught. He would drink himself if he felt the urge, but Nenya kept the longing at bay. Even though he heard the waves on the shore always, the pull of the land was stronger, and his infatuation with nature, birdsong and green life still kept him riveted to where he was. He had no desire to journey to the shores.

"Does it help?" he asked as he handed her the cup. "Can you tolerate the effect of this? I find it fatigues me."

"Small drinks," she replied. "That is all that is needed to keep the urging at bay. It is like miruvor. Only a little need be taken to feel the healing it offers."

"Yet the sea ever comes back," he pointed out, for he knew it true. When he had drunk, the draught would vanquish the Sea's song, but never for long.

She nodded as she sipped, not arguing this. But she seemed to accept this. He watched as her brow smoothed and knew she found the present world tolerable again.

He did not wish this. She should not have to find remedy to merely tolerate her home. "It is wrong that you have suffered on my behalf," he said. And with that he mustered the strength to do as he had earlier resolved. He removed Nenya and placed it on the bench between them.

Her eyes glanced upon the white gem, now plainly set between them. The glow of It remained bold. He dropped his hand into his lap and watched her as she studied her familiar Ring. Her face remained passive and all he could discern was the slowly drawn inhales and exhales of her steady breath. She seemed unmoved, but when she gazed at him, there were tears in her eyes.

"Why do you offer me this?" she asked.

This time it was Thranduil who gazed down at Nenya. "It belongs with you," he said. "I have no more need for It."

She waited a moment, as if studying her answer. And then she said, "I do not want It. Please, do not offer It to me."

"It will help you. It will ease the Sea's call for you," he stated with urging.

"Yet always I will feel it. No. Please," she pushed the Ring to him with the tips of her fingers, "Take It away that I would not be tempted by It again."

Thranduil felt his brow crush in confusion. "But why?" he asked. He would keep It from her if that was her desire, but he would know what it was that made her reject It.

"It would not change what I must do. I must travel on to Eldamar. To stay would mean to fade." His face must have betrayed his denial for she then said, "You must see that I have felt the Sea's pull since the first moment I placed Nenya upon my hand. To have such power over water means to face the peril of it, for water – the Sea - rules elvenkind. The Valar made it so when they cultivated the calling. Nenya is kind in that It softens that, but ever is the song present. And thousands and thousands of years of resisting the Sea's song have made me bitter. I have suffered _cuivëar_ for too long. I wish to be healed of it."

He did not know what to say then. He was not bitter for his own plight, for he was informed before he took Nenya what he would face. He simply felt sorrow for her, for he saw now that her part as a Ringbearer was greater than he had known. He remembered all the years he had suffered jealousy for her power, thinking a Ring the simple solution to ruling as she did. Her forest was safe because of the Ring she wielded, or so he had thought. But now he saw the terrible ordeal she had personally undertook as a means to safeguard her people.

"You should take too the mirror," she then said, surprising him.

"The mirror?" he echoed dumbly.

"Its power is tied to that of the Ring," she said plainly.

"You had told me I should not use it," he replied.

"Nay, I never forbid its use. I said only that you should wield it when it could help you."

"But I had wished to use it before when Legolas –" he began.

"You wanted it to make the decision for you, to tell you if your son died or if he found salvation. It would have showed you both. And then what would you have gained? Would your solution have been made clearer?" she said.

"How then am I to know when the time is right to look into it?" he asked.

"That," she punctuated, "is why Sauron gave you the Dwarf Ring. He did this because he knows your uncertainty and he fed upon it with a tool he could use to manipulate you. You cannot bear to rule absent of assurances. You wanted then someone to tell you that all would be well, answers handed to you smoothed over, thought through. To rule means to understand that some may be harmed by your decisions. Suffering occurs. No Ring can protect you of that."

Everything she was saying was true, and Thranduil felt his throat choked off by the chords of his throat. He had assured himself that he had ruled well all these years, but now he was coming to see that he had been reluctant, timid. "Perhaps," he whispered. "Legolas had wanted to take a bolder path in fighting the darkness of our wood."

"None of us will ever know if he was right. But doubtless he would have suffered his decisions had you followed his advice, for there would be those who died. It matters not now. All you can do is change the way you move forward. The chance to be bettered remains with you."

"Your esteem is far too great. My son has left me, and I told myself I would let him go." And then words of confession seemed to pour from him. "But now I wish to recant my pledge and hold him back. I have learned nothing, Galadriel! I am unworthy these opportunities to change you give me," he lamented.

She lifted her hand then and placed it flat against his chest. "Do you listen to your heart?" she asked.

"My heart is wary," he answered. "It tells me I have missed some detail. That there is something wrong."

She frowned. "How so? What is there that makes you say this?"

He paused to study her question. He had only spent time berating himself of his shifting resolve, not puzzling out his reasons why. But as he thought on it, the pieces began to form in his mind. "It is not Legolas," he finally concluded. "He is confused and angry, but that is as it would be. He will heal in time enough. No… no… it is not my son that makes me anxious, but instead it is the Dwarf. The Dwarf. But this too is wrong for I had thought to put my prejudices aside."

"Is it prejudice that makes you wary, Thranduil? What is said or done that might make you feel this?" she prodded.

"He… he …" But Thranduil threw his hands up in frustration for he did not have a ready answer. "I do not know him well enough to say he acts not as he should," he confessed.

"Does your son?" she asked.

"Of course he does," Thranduil scoffed.

"And what was their discourse like when last you saw them together?" she asked.

Thranduil blinked. "They were… distant. Not hostile, but not as friends either."

"And yet your son set off to journey with the Dwarf who seems not his friend. I will tell you that when your son and Gimli came to Lothlorien as a part of the Fellowship, they were inseparable, brothers of war. All of my people spoke at the oddity of their friendship. Your son named him Elvellon. Is that what you saw when they were together last?"

Thranduil gasped. Indeed, they were not. "Gimli had told me of his intent to leave and to take Legolas with him. But that was only if he could find means to restore their bond. Do you think Legolas parted of his own volition?"

"What does your heart tell you?" she asked.

And as he looked inward, he realized he had come to distrust the Dwarf. It was not prejudice that guided him, but Gimli's words and actions. A recollection came to mind, the moments they had spent in this same glade looking onto Mithtaur's font.

"_Perhaps it is you need to remove your Ring. Your mood certainly grows dim, and that is a sure sign of bad effect."_

_Gimli held up both hands before him and wiggled his fingers. They were bare. "Do you see It gracing my hand? Nay? Then be assured that my mind is my own."_

"He lies to me," Thranduil announced. "He lied!"

Galadriel's eyes flashed, for he knew she felt strong affection for Gimli. Yet she had seemed to push him to this conclusion. She said, "It is his Ring that makes him do it. It manipulated you as well."

"I thought him stronger than I. It was made for his kind, after all," he rebutted, but he had also swore to help the Dwarf in his taking of the Ring. He had not been diligent as he could have been. "Indeed he does wear his Ring and of course I cannot see It. It is the Dwarfstone. It was not made for any but Dwarfkind to bear, and only would I notice It if he gave me leave to. I fear he has fallen to the darkness, my lady, and he takes my son with him!"

Galadriel sighed. "Should we look to the mirror to make answer to this?"

"Nay, I have no need, for I know it to be true! I must hasten!" he exclaimed, suddenly wishing to run to the stables to make ready a fast horse. How many hours lead did they have on him now?

"Think with calm, Thranduil! Be not ill-prepared. You should take the mirror with you, for though you may not need it now, a time may come when you do," she instructed. "Plan your mission."

Thranduil stopped. He took a measured breath. She was right; he must not panic. He recalled then that he had much admiration for her and he thought then what would she do in his case. And then better still, he realized there was another he greatly admired, and that he could also use as a model for the actions he would take. "Yes," he then said. "I must. I will." And then he began to number in his mind what was important and how he should set off. To all, Legolas was a hero, and bold though his actions were, he acted from a true heart. That was the secret Thranduil came to see. That was what was needed to be a capable and honest leader, and so he would emulate his son's actions in this and hereon.

He reached out his hand to hers and squeezed it before he placed Nenya on his finger once more. "I must leave," he said. "I hope I will see you again before you part. Regardless, my deepest gratitude goes to you." And with that he lifted her chin slightly and gave her a long kiss. The meaning of it was not one to hearken of love, for the kiss was chaste. But simultaneously it was imbued with his great affection. "Thank you," he said as he broke away from her. And then he set off to make ready. He would leave within the hour, and in this he was not feeling doubt. He was leaving to save his son once more from the shadow that haunted him.

xxxxxx

Legolas could hear a disagreement taking shape, two voices deep and rumbling. But he was too tired to try to sort them out. His muscles were slack as he relaxed his strained body allowing the much-desired sleep to carry him. Still, the ruckus of words filtered into his reverie, mixing with the visions of his dear Mírnen. The argument and his beloved home took up a shared place in his mind.

The voices became identity, became features, and a moment later he came to recognize Gimli walking alongside Mithtaur in his imagined world, one deep voice tangling with another. They strolled to the steep of the cliff, looking out over the forest region and down onto the Celebrant plains. Legolas, of course, was with them in this reverie, though their backs were to him, as if he was not to be a part of this. It was like that first dream of Celebrimbor and Faeldaer, that he was there and also not.

Feeling distant and dismissed, Legolas gazed about him, turning in a circle so he might see Mírnen. It was there on the other side of the lake, the sun shining down on the center gardens and the activity typical of a fine morning among its inhabitants. The gardens were busy as Lendelil ordered Gwinneth and Brethilas to pick through the raised beds, finding the lean long stems of springtime asparagus and the purple-veined leaves of greens that would make their next meal. He looked to the shaded beds on the mainland shores, seeing others foraging in the cool shade for ramps, fiddleheads and mushrooms, which he was especially fond of in a Hobbitlike way. He gazed again at the isle and saw Faeldaer near the fires, his burnished hair shining bright in the sun, the color like that of glowing coals he worked over. He was working a craft piece, pounding out the form of a cup with his hammer and anvil. The sound resonated its clanging din, creating a tempo within the small village. And somewhere within this, music emerged, a voice in song, the hum of others chiming in, sharing their contentment and serenity. He had been here before and all was as he recalled it. He need only emerge from the forest with a stag thrown over his shoulder to make the scene complete.

Yet this dreamworld felt not of his own. Though he was sure he could have acted his part in the recollection at his will, he had no control over the Dwarf or Ent roles, and so he remained where he stood, watching and listening to them.

"I grow suspicious of this endeavor, MasterMasterMaster Dwarf. I wonder if this journey indeed is wise," the Ent said.

"I made promises to you. I will keep them. You need not worry," he heard the dwarf reply.

"He-he-he sleeps as he did before. He does not stir as we move."

"He is merely fatigued and not yet fully healed. Let him rest."

"No, I do not like it. It reminds me too much of what had happened before. I think perhaps you conjure images in his mind."

Legolas felt the world lurch and jerk then. He heard Gimli's exclamation, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I should turn us about and go back."

"Why should you do that? We will be to Mírnen by the morn if you just travel on! Do you not want to make amends to your home? You would forsake those you left behind? No, do not halt. Move! This is right. We will repair all that went ill if you would but carry on as we agreed."

And now the world swayed, as if rocked between stopping and stepping. "It is not right. You supply him with drink."

"I only give as he asks. Many elves have supped on it. You know it is harmless, and for him, it chases away the call of the sea."

"He sleeps too deeply. He consumes too much. And you encourage it!"

"Do you think I sway him in his dreams? Is that your complaint? I have no power there. He dreams as an elf does. I merely want the haunting sea-longing to be gone for him. But here, let me call to him and I will prove to you that he is not under my control."

And in his imagining, Legolas felt the village fading away, his mind circling about the conversation. He found his eyes clearing as he blinked them to wakefulness.

The pain in his body and the fatigue in his bones came heavily upon him then and he stifled a groan as he came to sit up. "No need to make demonstration," he murmured, anticipating the round of queries he was about to receive. "I can hear you and make plain my willingness to follow. Please, just carry forward."

He found himself sitting in the crook of Mithtaur's limbs. The rocking movement of the Ent had been lulling to him and he could easily sleep again. But he yawned instead and widened his eyes to prove his wakefulness in this dizzy, strange world. It took him a moment to recall how he had come to be there, but when he did he agreed to the assertion that indeed he was willing.

Reflecting on the progress of the night, he remembered that they had left Lothlorien without word to any. True to the plan Gimli had conceived, they left when darkness had fallen. Gimli had managed Arod without difficulty, handing Legolas his weapons and his waterskin as he approached. It was quite easy, Legolas had thought, for his father did not reproach them for it, nor did any other elf interfere, but it was also what he had expected of something conceived in dream. And he reminded himself once more that truly everything that he had been living of late – the Golden Wood, the dwarf, his father, Arod – were of his imagination. They did not exist. Instead they were an imprint of a muddled mind. He'd given up on trying to make sense of it. It was Gimli's concurrence to this notion that had convinced him to give up on this seeming world and to try once more to reclaim his life with Faeldaer. And should he not? That had been where he had been most happy.

Still, despite the ease of their mission, Legolas had difficulty. He winced now as he adjusted his seat, a shooting pain stabbing at him from his bad leg. He had left his room in the Golden Wood without cane or crutch, foolishly thinking the short trek to the stable might be easy enough to make. But he was wrong. It felt as if a pike was jutting through the limb and the pain did not ease with the ride. In fact, as he laid a hand to the scarred wound, he felt heat rising there and knew a festering malignancy was gaining strength within. It was a seed of darkness, a wound that would not heal.

It affected his mood. He felt irritable, uncomfortable. He found no room for kindness or companionable commentary. In his mind he kept company only with figments of dream, and if he did not care to converse with them he saw no harm in that for they could not take offense. They were not real.

Further, he was tired and he longed only to be done with the discomfort of travel so he might rest. When they left Lothlorien, he and Gimli rode as they always had, with Legolas to the front of Arod and Gimli at his back, but Legolas had found himself horribly fatigued even then, and it was not long before his head had fallen forward, his eyes drawing to close. He dozed, but he would glance up from time to time, directing Arod though he need not. The horse followed Gimli's commands. Were this not a dream he might have found that odd as well.

Still, their path was a circuitous one, and he had trouble puzzling that out. Rather than set out on a straight road over the open plains toward Fangorn, they had initially turned east toward the Anduin, a few miles further turning south, and then some time later returning west. Now they followed the foot of the mountains, again moving south. It was a zigzag path, and had he any suspicions, he might think they tried to fool spying eyes so they might be thought to travel one road instead of another. But he could care less which way they went so long as he eventually returned to Mírnen. That was all he wanted.

Still recalling how they had come to this moment, he blearily remembered that as they had traveled to the mountains, in the distance a lone tree stood. It was on a low rise, craggy and ragged, as if it had been scarred by eons of exposure to the winds and nature's difficult treatment. He realized when they neared that it had been Mithtaur they approached.

All of this was hazy, a strange delirium that set the world off-balance, askew. When he touched his own brow, he recognized the fever growing there. His discomfort increased with their journey. In truth, he was not sure how he had moved from the back of the horse to the branches of the Ent,

"You see?" Gimli was saying to Mithtaur. "I do nothing untoward in persuading him." Legolas looked up at the dwarf who was poised on a branch just above him, and that seemed such an oddity to Legolas too. He could not imagine Gimli being carried by anything but his own two legs. Had he been looking for it, here again was proof of the odd nature taken on in this world.

The Ent frowned, but after a long _hroom_, he began his march once more and Legolas found himself falling into the rhythm of his steps, his aches easing as he began once more to relax. He blinked as he took in the long strides of the Ent and gazed at the environs about them. The night was near done, the sky beginning to lighten with the advance of day. Still, the moon was out and cast silver light on the wintergrass plains that they crossed. A frost had painted the landscape with a white brush, and the moon's reflection created a myriad dusting of sparkling light. The mountains to their right meanwhile climbed to vaulting walls of blue granite, and he felt a cold chill at his back, as if it pressed on them to advance away, toward open lands. Above, he saw clouds congregating over the highest peaks, and he could tell a snow would be falling there. Ahead, on the plains, the sky was clear, and the day to come would be fair. Still, he shivered.

Gimli took a step down from his perch, leaning over the elf to pull Legolas's cape tighter about his shoulders like a mindful nurse, and that protective gesture seemed like the dwarf Legolas had known. And it angered him. This was not Gimli, the moment was not real, and he wanted not to believe anything of it. He shook his head and pulled away. He did not want his heart touched by such kindnesses that would only later make him mourn.

"Where is Arod?" he asked, suddenly realizing the horse was gone.

"I sent him away," Gimli answered plainly. "He served his purpose. I freed him and released him to the wilds. I thought it might be what you would do."

Legolas nodded, but too he frowned. "I should have liked to say goodbye."

"Why?" Gimli asked, and Legolas understood the point. There was no need. The Arod of this world was not real, for in dreams, such departures meant nothing. He hardened his heart to the cold truth and tried not to feel anything for the horse's absence.

But Gimli seemed to anticipate his thoughts and countered with his own logic. "You can always just conjure him up in your recollections if you miss him." And this was also true. Still, the sweet smell of the horse's hide and familiar gait of his even steps in this recent reality made Legolas feel sentimental and sad that he would no longer have Arod as a companion. And with that, the chigger bite of irritation burrowed deeper into his mood. He was reminded again that since his seeming awakening in this world he had been in a perpetual state of anger and irritation.

"Do you feel well enough, Master Elf?" Mithtaur then asked, turning head down to look at the elf he held in his limbs, and Legolas wondered how he must appear to be questioned so. "We can halt if you need rest."

And the dwarf once more reached over to him and laid a hand across his brow. "Perhaps he is right. You fever," he whispered.

Legolas swiped his hand away, answering his own needs with his own skill. "I merely thirst. You need not fret," he scowled. He pulled the waterskin strapped over his shoulder and uncorked it to take a long draw. It was nearly empty and he realized he had drunk all in the course of this short journey. Remembering the dreamed argument, he scowled. But he did not care if he overindulged. He drank the remains, sighing in frustration when the flask upended empty. "Gone," he said as he tossed the now empty skin over his shoulder.

"Take mine," Gimli said, handing him the waterskin he carried at his side. "Should we stop?" he then asked, picking up the refrain from before.

With the drink, Legolas's head was spinning slightly, but he did not care. He had drunk enough of the Ent draught over the years in Mírnen to know how much he could consume and how to handle it. If he grew drunk on it, so be it. Everything was false anyway. Drinking would help him sleep, and then he would find Mírnen and Faeldaer in his other dreams.

"I am tired," he answered, but even to his ears he sounded surly and cruel, and he lightened his tongue, finding kindness within him still. He turned eyes to the dwarf and Ent and said in a meeker voice. "Allow me to rest for a time, please, but do not stop. I will be well. I know I will."

But Mithtaur's hesitance had returned, and his face was drawn with distress. "No, this is not right. I th-th-think we should turn back. If he is ill, this journey is not wise."

"Nay, please," Legolas answered him, jumping ahead of any answer Gimli might give. "I would go on. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can put all right." And to this Gimli smiled, settling himself on the branch beside Legolas.

The Ent raised his brows, as if considering the elf's words. He continued to march, but his expression was one of doubt. "I think we should go back," he said simply. With his next step he stumbled, tripping on a rut that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Legolas cried out at the sudden jerking movement, and Gimli wrapped an arm around him as if to keep him from falling. "Careful!" the dwarf barked. But when he glanced up to the dwarf's face, he saw his brow arched darkly, his hand stretched out as if making command, and Legolas felt almost as if the dwarf had manipulated the ground so as to make the Ent stumble. He blinked, surprised that such a thought had entered his mind. It melted away almost immediately as the dwarf looked at him, his hand resting on his shoulder. His eyes were consoling. He continued to scold, but Legolas felt now compassion from him. "Do you try to hurt him? March on!"

Legolas nodded his concurrence, pushing back the pain and trying once more to relax. He leaned back into the crook of the branch, and the pain seemed to dissipate. He took then another swallow of water from the skin Gimli had offered him, his thirst renewed and his eyelids almost immediately grew heavy. He chose not to fight them, the need to sleep growing more and more, his weariness overwhelming him as the drink's effect took hold.

"Can you see him?" Gimli murmured to him in the darkness. Legolas was not sure what he meant and he scowled his displeasure at being interrupted. He would scold with good humor if he thought the dwarf real, but he simply shook his head instead, turning away, essentially dismissing, unconcerned once more by his bad behavior. But the dwarf was not dissuaded. "Faeldaer is there just on the other side of your lids."

And with those words, Legolas could see anew Faeldaer, leaning over him, nursing him, briefly, taking over where there had been the dwarf, brushing the back of his hand over his cheek, smiling softly, encouragingly.

"Faeldaer?" he whispered, moved and surprised, longing. He reached up to take that hand. But Faeldaer was gone, instead replaced by the visage of Gimli leaning over him once more.

Still that brief glimpse was enough to appease Legolas's disappointment. He was there. Faeldaer. He was there on the other side of this dream and he knew the Dwarf aimed not to disturb his sleep but to push him to what was waiting for him on the other side of his illness, or whatever it was that kept him in this other world.

Legolas gratefully smiled then before he closed his eyes once more, still holding Gimli's hand. The delusion faded, and almost, almost in that moment it was Faeldaer touching him. _Bring me home,_ he thought as he squeezed the hand. _Help me find the rest of the way to you._

TBC


	68. Symmetry

**AN: I owe those who have been following this story a big apology for not updating sooner. I've heard your pleas, and I truly was not ignoring you; I just felt it important personally that I get ahead of myself for the next several chapters. As of recent I found myself almost backed into a corner on some of the stuff I've started, and now that I've been afforded the luxury of some advance writing, I feel like I'm in more control. Hopefully your wait and utmost patience will have paid off. Please enjoy!**

**Dark Forest**  
_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite_  
_Chapter Sixty-Seven: Symmetry_

Legolas felt sick, mired in fever, overwhelmed. There were hands touching him, stroking his brow. He tried to push them away, feeling his old aversion to touch coming back to him, but he had not even the strength for this. Words were whispered in his ear, the voice deep. He recognized it as Gimli's. But the words spoken were in a language he did not know. They seemed dark, like the sound of them made him unclean. He shivered suddenly. He felt his head was being lifted, liquid poured down his throat. He choked on it, coughing, but swallowed without resistance, knowing what was being fed to him and remaining compliant as he had decided he must. The voice seemed to tell him to do as much, even if he could not recognize the words.

He fell into dreams, his illness forcing him to ignore what the hands were stirring in his body. He chose a recollection of Faeldaer to dream of, knowing that if he could not be with his love, he could relive moments through his recollections again and again. And then he was in the gardens of Mírnen with Faeldaer at his side.

They were walking, talking. He could feel his fingers brushing the blossoms and greenery of the nearest plants, pollen dusting his fingers, tickling his nose. The air carried a light breeze, and he felt his hair lifting with the brush of it. The sun deckled the landscape in the late afternoon, patches of light and shadow dancing with the movement of the trees above. And in this memory he was relaying tales of the Fellowship to his companion. But more than that, he could recall the detail of feeling the nearness of Faeldaer, hearing the sounds of his laughter. In his memory he saw that Faeldaer's eyes shone gold as the sun caught the flecks in them. They sparkled each time he laughed, and Legolas enjoyed now with his hindsight vision the pristine beauty of it. His heart was light, and he realized that even in the memory that in that moment he had held such trust, such love, hard-earned though it had been to gain.

At the time he had not recognized his growing amore, or at least he had not admitted he was feeling such then. But with the retrospect of memory, of elven dreams, Legolas could see it now. And sadly, because he knew that he would eventually be pulled away from this happy place by a reality he did not want, Legolas regretted that he had resisted loving Faeldaer for as long as he had. Even then he could feel the pain in his leg, suspecting it was a source for illness. He recalled that even then, his heart had accepted that he might die from the weakening he was sometimes plagued with. And he had let that hold him back, stubbornly believing then that he wanted to return to his old life. He had been such a fool!

He could not bear the thought of what he had so blatantly taken for granted, so instead he let himself slip into the very tale he had been telling Faeldaer in this dream. He found himself then with the Fellowship, going back to the days when their journey had just begun, when friendships were still being made and discoveries of common traits and habit were another part of their adventure.

Here, he found himself crouching low to the ground, nesting into a small space so as to take rest at the end of the day's journey. Gandalf had set himself up to take the first watch while Sam fashioned a light dinner for them, using their perishables and omitting use of fire as Aragorn demanded, for they knew they must be spare in putting light to wood lest they be noticed by unwanted eyes. In those days though, in the quiet moments before taking rest, Legolas had used song to warm and hearten them. He had quickly learned that the Hobbits enjoyed music immensely and he found that all seemed to settle more easily into sleep when the day ended with a song or a tale.

By his recollection in this exact memory, the air was chill and Legolas could feel it even now in his throat as he breathed. He recalled thinking that he was not used to travelling in the company of mortal beings, and he remembered worrying over the effect the cold would have on them, fearful of them perishing from it.

But the Hobbits seemed to find ways to ward it off, huddling together and drawing their cloaks and bedrolls about them like hounds nesting in a den. He watched too of the others, noticing how Boromir and Gimli sat together, agreeing that they would rest against each other so as to guard the other's back, and Legolas remembered thinking that these two might form a friendship, so rugged and brusque and earthy did they both seem to him. He had no way of knowing then that he would be the one that Gimli would eventually bond to, and that it would be Boromir who would pull further and further away from the Fellowship. Amusing with hindsight, it was in these early days that Legolas perceived most in their group regarded their elven companion as the distant one. Only Aragorn seemed to understand Legolas then, his life being one of isolation and privation as well, and he was more like the battled soul Legolas had come to be. It was Aragorn, unlike Gandalf, who would speak to him in the Sindarin tongue, as if he understood that Legolas needed something to comfort him in this odd company too, language being easy enough to give.

Yet despite the foreign quality of it all, Legolas relished these days, for each was an adventure and full of daring feats. The moments he recalled in this dream were important in creating the bonds of love that were fostered there, for none of them yet knew the dangers they would meet. Those first days were the ones when they learned to trust one another. Fear and trepidation would come soon enough, but the foundation of surety was critical in securing their protective nature so they would guard one another and Legolas relinquished enough of himself that others soon came to realize he was not a distant being, that he had feelings and worries just as the rest of them did. Even Gimli came to appreciate Legolas's stories and songs, even in these first days.

Despite this memory though, Legolas knew these moments were in the past, and he felt lost, as if such trusts would never come to him again. His mind took him then to Mirkwood, and he was confronted by a memory that played into the darker mood that his worry seemed to center upon.

He recalled standing in his father's map room, being berated by the king for some of his more daring pursuits. He had just returned from battle and he had led a successful campaign, ravaging the enemy and casting them out of his protected territory within the deeper woods. Thranduil had raged at him for taking needless chances, risking so many lives, making the army vulnerable despite his success by opening up flanks to make the final sweep into enemy territory. Legolas remembered his frustration; no matter his explanation, the king would not ease his tirade. It hurt. It hurt because he had just left his men, soldiers, warriors, valiant and firm in their resolve, and they trusted him without question. He was their captain and they would follow him wherever he told them to go. They knew nothing of him except that he fought with them, and for that he had their love and their respect.

Yet Thranduil, his father, his lord, and the one who should be his most revered advisor, held him in utter disregard. He did not congratulate him for his success nor did he strategize further demonstration against the enemy. Instead he belittled and chastised Legolas, as if he was nothing more to him than a rogue warrior, acting without warrant. Legolas remembered hardening himself to the tongue-lashing then, his jaw tightening as he willed away the choking feeling in his throat, pretending as he came to do often after that that Thranduil was not his father.

Of course, he had been convinced by Faeldaer to forgive his father, and despite his place in this dream, he was transported back then to the other. They were there in Faeldaer's sun-colored rooms, spending long hours unearthing truths Legolas would have never considered without his friend's wise counsel. And with that, Legolas felt relieved, shifting between moments with his father and then with Faeldaer, recognizing the manipulations delivered were those fostered in truth by Sauron.

In the scene that played out, Legolas could watch his father with Faeldaer at his side, trying not to hear the words, trying to avoid taking them to heart, and instead watching the unsteady bearing of the elf. He noticed then the small details that Faeldaer had encouraged him to see: the frown that deepened Thranduil's brow; the creases around his eyes that only ever formed there when he was fatigued; that slight quake in his voice that belied fear and hesitancy; his hand twitching as the left clutched at the right. He saw the king's hand shake. And with this Legolas came to agree once again with Faeldaer that his father had been possessed of something beyond himself. This dream just reconfirmed what he had already come to accept.

Still, if he could see this in his father of the past, why could he not find remedy with the Thranduil that represented the present? His thoughts then went to these last weeks, and he recalled the elf who had kept company with him in his Lothlorien room. And it was true that in this present reality, Thranduil was an elf remedied of his past. He was kinder, compassionate, concerned. He was an elf Legolas could come to love if only he could believe this world real and would surrender to his own truer self, trusting what was around him. But this reality was not real; it was a dream created by a maddened mind and Legolas had decided not to invest his heart here.

And with this he pushed aside any thoughts he might have to believe in this new world of reality. How could he disavow Faeldaer, as those nearest him had tried to make him do, when his memories were so poignant and the things he had learned through the elf were so great?

In fact he was certain that as much as he longed to feel love for the father he had in this world, that the real Thranduil was as dark in spirit as he had been before. No, the lesson was not to trust the one he was with now but to understand what had been in his past. He felt certain that was it for Faeldaer had worked hard with him so Legolas could understand the motivations of the people around him. Legolas could not love the past version of his father, but he could forgive him. And like the perception given to the Fellowship at first, Legolas perhaps did seem distant, aloof. But that was only to protect himself and with time and friendship he could loosen himself enough to love and be loved. Knowing that, he purposely kept his distance from this Thranduil, this version of Gimli, Galadriel, Celeborn. He did so as to not grow attached to them, to be pulled from them as he had been from Faeldaer. This indeed was the motivation he used for all this present world. He could not afford to be hurt again. And yet he mourned because his heart was torn by his desire. Beyond all else, he desired to love, to be loved, and to have purpose. Didn't his memories always bring him to that truth?

With that, he gave in to what was asked of him by the dwarf. Gimli had vowed to return him to Faeldaer, and disavowing this world and those that peopled it, he was able to follow with blind allegiance so as to meet that other world again. That was home to him.

xxxxxxx

Thranduil placed his hand to his heart, measuring the small thread of communion he yet maintained with his son. It was one-sided, this perception, but it mattered little to him. All he wanted was to know Legolas was yet there, yet unhurt. He closed his eyes, the cold air lightly touching his lids as he poured his heart into the sense of his child. Safe. Yes, he was safe, but Legolas's feelings were confused, and as he pressed his hand bearing Nenya firmer into his chest, he could feel the small stirrings of wariness that were layered into that thread.

But it was light, barely present, this connection, and Ring of Power or not, he could not breach the distance. He cursed then as he let his hand fall to his side, opening his eyes once again.

The sun was rising over the plains, the tiny shimmer of silver in the distance set to glorious fire by the brightening glow that peaked past the blue walls of night. The peach-blazened light, yet dim, cast deep shadows on the silver-grey grasses that surrounded him and his party, and as he stood on a high tuft of earth, he gazed about him at his party and their doings, trying to muster patience while they waited.

He was frustrated and worried, and that sensation had grown through the night of riding. Finding the resolve now to be still, to wait, was a trial to him indeed.

The dwarf and his captive son had more than a half night's lead on them, and it did not please him. He had originally thought they might catch them, for he and his men rode fast horses, borrowed from the Galadhrim stables, and the dwarf and elf had left the Lothlorien realm headed east, toward Mirkwood, toward the Lonely Mountain, in no seeming hurry. Thranduil now saw this assumption was wrong.

They soon came to see that the tracks they had been following veered south. South and following the Anduin. Did the pair decide then, for at the time Thranduil yet thought Legolas to be a willing participant in this journey, that they were to go back to Rohan? To Gondor? It made no sense in Thranduil's mind, for had Gimli not said it was time he went home? That was when the wary feeling Thranduil had been trying to ignore, to push aside, began to grow.

And then their path ventured west and Thranduil came to see that this path too was a ruse, that there was something going afoul, that the pair were purposely leading them astray. Thranduil's companions, unaware of the Ring and Its influence, speculated that they were headed to Moria. The new tracks led into the mountains they pointed out. But Thranduil was not fooled. He had stopped then to search out his son's feelings and found them unmoved, still, as if Legolas had no cares at all. And he wondered then if his son perhaps had been set again into dreams, the dwarf's admission that he meant to feed Legolas the draught suddenly growing into a startling wrong. If Legolas was insensate, anything could be done to him. And that was when he began to regard Legolas a captive to the dwarf's strange doings.

Seeing now that he had been led astray twice now, Thranduil was not going to be fooled again. He allowed two of his riders to follow the tracks into the mountains with instructions for one to return with a report in a few hours time. He could afford that for delay, but he also determined that they would run the horses fast thereafter to make up this lost time. But who was to say the dwarf and his son were not also running at a horse's full clip. As much as he hated to think it, the idea of quickly catching and overtaking the dwarf and his son was forsaken, for he realized now what their real destination was.

He predicted what his men would find. The trail leading to the mountains was about to abruptly shift again, and this time it would skirt the rim of the ridges, leading Gimli and Legolas back to Fangorn Forest. They were going back to Fangorn and back into the ruined remains of Mírnen.

It was clear then, at least to Thranduil, that the Dwarf Ring had taken control of Gimli's will. Thranduil fretted for him, but he had decided not to panic. The spirit of Sauron was no longer a threat and therefore he would not try to rule the dwarf's actions. The worst Gimli could do was let the Ring guide him to greed and Thranduil chose to believe that there was no outward danger in that. At least not immediately, and certain not for Legolas. But then, he wondered, why had Legolas been taken along on this journey if there wasn't a purpose for him too? It confused him and made him fear once more that his earlier assumptions that all evil had been destroyed were wrong.

His entourage was small, a party of five plus the elf king. Thranduil had not the time to muster the others in his original company, but he thought it better this way. It had been decided that the others would take up the route back to Mirkwood. To those on this mission, it was deemed a minor side journey, done in the minds of his men as a means for the king to bid farewell to his son. Thranduil had decided it would be so, not wishing to stir up fear or rumors, especially if his premise for fearing the short leave of the elf and dwarf was wrong. Let his men think instead that there was yet a rift between the king and his son. Let them think that Thranduil wished to repair it. Let them think that Legolas's leaving had been like all others of the past, clandestine and cold, and that this time Thranduil would counter it with a confrontation of his own. Let his men think this so they would be unconcerned with the extra vigilance a larger party might bring or the opportunities Thranduil might need to peel himself away from even this small group. His men would understand a need for privacy if they deemed there was an emotional reason. They would not let him journey though if they perceived danger would be present. Of course he enjoyed none of this, but he also sensed it was necessary, for no one else could deal with the encounter he prepared himself for but Thranduil. A large party would only get in the way.

They had moved as far as he dared allow them when they stopped to wait for the messenger. And now he stood on that small tussock of frost-covered grass, watching the sunrise, doing his best to quell the ravings of his mind.

They had allowed the horses to graze, reins left unchecked and dragging. But the horses were well-trained and remained near, not roaming far from their masters. The men used the time to take a small meal, sharing some dried meat one of them had managed to pack away before leaving Lothlorien. They congregated together, like the horses, loyal and not wandering far. It was Thranduil who felt restless, desiring to break away. He was anxious, unnerved, and he felt uncomfortable as if a vague spirit haunted him.

The sun was rising, a reminder that time was moving on. Thranduil pivoted on his feet, a small decision made. He strolled over to his own horse, the mare's head lifting to look boldly at him, ears twitching as he neared. But then she dropped her head when she realized he sought only what she carried in her pack, and she murmured as he rubbed his hand over her side, pressing into him as if in anticipation of a grooming. Her coat was damp with sweat, but none of them had been pushed yet, and he felt right in giving them this break before riding them harder. He scratched her at her shoulder briefly, but then moved on to the saddlebag, retrieving the prize he had stored away there himself before leaving Lothlorien. And then he nodded to his men as he moved away from them, the gesture one that indicated he would be alone but not far. They would call to him if he was needed.

Although the plains were unmarred by copse or shrubbery, rising hillocks and falling beds, like short waves on a calm sea, belied that seeming flatness. And so it was that within a hundred steps of his people he could find himself nested in a small dip in the land, far enough that, should he duck, he could be nearly unseen. Finding a level piece of earth, he kneeled there as he pulled out the satchel and flask Galadriel had gifted him. The decision was in his mind that if he must find patience, he would do so productively. The Nimrodel water, as it was poured into the basin of the mirror, sounded a tinkling din, ringing like bells. It was loud in his ears, the crisp air seeming to amplify it and he was glad then he had chosen to do this away from his men. He did not want others to intrude on what he was about to do.

Galadriel and Celeborn had been very insistent that he not use the mirror for the wrong purpose; it could not make decisions for him. But he was certain his motivation was right this time and he wanted was to confirm what he already knew.

Yet being the master of the mirror was new to him, and he realized the sensation of looking into it was different now. As he leaned over it, he found himself wildly off-balance, as if he might fall in. Instead of simply seeing what the mirror foretold from the surface of the glass, he was immersed in it, as if the water surrounded him, and in turn he was surrounded by its vision. But he pressed his palms firmly into the ground on either side of the bowl, grounding himself, and immediately he felt re-oriented. And then he set in his mind the question he wished to confirm: _For my son, is there yet a dark influence at work?_

The water begin to stir, to alter, and with it he found himself set adrift in it, as if he floated on a current, the water leading him over a wavering path, never quite settling. In the vision, fleeting as he passed, he found himself within a tomb. A skeleton leaned against a wall. All around it he saw faint figures – elves - in various states of recline. They looked to be sleeping and his mind fell to puzzlement. Had he done this wrong? Had his question not been direct enough? Was the mirror answering some other question he had not thought to outwardly ask?

But then the image shifted before he could learn more, and he floated into a new vision. He saw the Ent, Mithtaur, and he was laying on his side, buried beneath a mountain of rubble. The Ent did not stir. And Thranduil thought, there is foretelling of danger of some sort, for these are not joyous events. Again the water moved him and he was brought to a scene, more vivid than the others. Legolas emerged from a cave entrance and he looked up, out, as if he could see Thranduil. He was reaching out to him, a son opening his arms to the embrace of his father. Relief welled in Thranduil's heart; perhaps all was not so dire. But Legolas's expression morphed as he stepped forward and his face became something demonic. The embrace, which seemed to reach Thranduil even through the illusion of the mirror, became a stranglehold. And while Legolas's grip was not real, it frightened Thranduil for the menace it unveiled. He gasped, but thankfully the vision shifted just then, and Thranduil thought perhaps a more welcoming scene might greet him. Surely something of happiness lies ahead, he thought. But he only saw Gimli lying dead, his skull bashed, blood and brain matter spilling out on a stone floor, and once more he was moved to cry out. Immediately the vision altered, and as before he saw Legolas leading an army of elves, marching upon Gondor. _No, no, please, _he thought. _Tell me there is yet hope. _

And then, as if realizing that indeed it had trespassed too far into dark waters, the current of Thranduil's visions changed, and the mire lifted, for he saw a beautiful garden next. And though he found himself at a distance from the center of the scene, he recognized that he and his son were walking in it. A gentle breeze lifted his son's hair; Legolas smiled as he gazed up into the sunny skies and Thranduil found he mirrored that expression outwardly. The vision began to fade then, the water pulling him, as if depositing him on a shale floor, but one last image came to his eyes before all fully dissipated. It made his heart quake, for in it he saw Legolas screaming out in pain, his hand wrapped around a knife blade that pierced his leg. Thranduil thought for a moment it might be an old scene, the day he had stabbed his son. But Legolas was of adult age, not the boy. And at his side Gimli and Thranduil were gathered, their expressions grim, filled with horror.

Just as always, when he took moment to question, the mirror ceased, and all the sights within it faded. Thranduil drew back, his hands shaking and the weight of Nenya feeling quite heavy on his finger. His quaking fear was not abated. The mirror had confirmed what he had already guessed the truth to be. He had dared not say what he suspected aloud, but now he knew.

He felt stunned, overwhelmed. He had felt wary before, but he had not imagined he would see all he came to view within the mirror. He sank back on his heels, almost falling over as he struggled to breathe. And in his mind a single thought rolled over again and again. _What to do? What to do?_

Now more than ever, he wished he had objected to Gimli's departure with his son. He wished he had realized the dwarf's deception and had cut them off sooner. Oh, but he wished so many things, none of which could be. What was past was past he realized. Cruelly the gods had made it so he had only the moment to deal with.

His hands tightened into fists, fingers curling around the threads of grass, digging into them as if they could anchor him. But the earth was too soft, and his hands pulled away, detaching clumps of dirt and plant stems, plant roots. He vacantly stared down on the debris he uprooted and noted a clump of dark matter still rooted in the earth. It was unlike the grass or dirt and he canted his head to get a better look at it.

It seemed to be a swatch of fabric, a small piece of yardage that had been carelessly tossed or torn, trampled into the ground. That was when he came to recognize the heavy clumps of dirt, weeks eroded, but still clearly turned by the dance of horses hooves. Patches of dirt were turned over in the small vale, and he understood now that these were the covered over holes they had dealt with weeks past. His hand reached down and pulled up the fabric. Crude, undyed, he immediately recognized the base material used by the orcs for their clothes. What he held in his hand was the remnant of a sleeve, and he knew in that instant that somehow they had come to stop at the precise place of the orc graveyard he and the Galadhrim had unwittingly created.

He dropped the fabric and shuddered. How untimely that he would come to visit this place now! And without willing it, the memory of the she-orc and her elf-like baby stirred his heart. Her plea yet whispered in his mind. _"Forgive me, my lord!"_ The clarity of his realization that she had once been an elf but that she had been turned to the dark, persuaded by forces greater than her. And the child, dead after just a few breaths of air, its burden mercifully ended before it began. They haunted him.

And yet, in ways he could not yet piece together, he saw a symmetry to this, another mirror view on all that was happening. That female orc had not willed her life to this. As that baby had not chosen death. It was circumstance that brought them there. Circumstance and manipulating forces. But circumstances could change! And manipulators could be halted! He could stop what was happening if he could reach his son in time. Legolas need not be dragged helplessly into the chasm of evil's altering. Had Thranduil not seen the chance for a better outcome for his son in the mirror? Had he not seen Legolas's face lift to the sun's light?

He knew then what must be done and, refilling the flasks with what he could of the Nimrodel water, he tossed the rest aside and quickly packed up the bowl. They must hurry. There was no plan to make, for they knew not what they would encounter, but he was certain his presence could help defeat this evil. And that was the power truly of the mirror. No answers, just affirmations.

Just then one of his men called out. He looked up as he approached, his hand gesturing to something drawing near from a point upon the horizon. "It is a horse," his aide, informed him.

"The messenger returns to us already?" Thranduil asked, surprised that the man was meeting up with them so soon.

"Nay, it is not one of ours. It bears no rider," the elf-warrior said.

Curious, Thranduil turned his head so as to see the beast as it galloped at a full run toward them. Toward them, not away as he would expect an animal of the wild to do. He squinted, making out the color and gait of the horse. And then he felt it, the squeeze upon his heart. His hand came to the center of his chest and he pressed there, knowing what it meant, this ache. But he stayed present though his eyes began to draw tears. His voice lifted in a question as he began to realize what it was he was seeing. "Arod?" he queried.

Another of his warriors came forward, nodding. "Aye, it is the horse that your son rides. Arod." He paused a moment, lifting a long hand to his eyes, and then proving the keen eyesight of his Sylvan heritage he added, "And there is blood along his flanks, my lord."

The ache in his chest grew stronger just then, and he drew inward to appreciate it. Hurting though it was, it did not take from him any of his strength. Instead, it tugged at his spirit, tentative, uncertain, as if to gather his attention and make him aware that there was need. He pressed his hand to his chest again and closed his eyes, dipping his chin. And then he sent a corresponding affirmation out, putting love into it, strength._ I am coming._

"My lord?" the aide asked, his hand reaching Thranduil's arm as if to steady him.

Thranduil opened his eyes, and he looked at the man. At his men. And then he watched for a moment more as Arod continued to run toward them. "Make ready the horses," he said, his sight not wavering from the approaching beast. "We tarry no more. My son is in need of our help. I have just felt his spirit cry out to me, and we will go to him now. Something foul is afoot and I will not allow evil such as this to be done to him again."

"But the messenger, my lord? The horse, Arod?" he was pressed.

"Arod will come with us." Thranduil nodded at the approaching animal. "I suspect the blood to be his, not that of his riders. But he is well enough to run and I think therefore the wound to be superficial. One of you will remain here to receive the messenger, and if Arod is unfit he will stay too. But if not he will come and we will retrieve my son together. He has been loyal and as faithful a companion to him as any, more so in fact, and I will not keep him away now."

"What is it you suspect?"

"Darkness has not been vanquished," he said. And then he swallowed his kingly pride and decided to assert himself as a father first. His role of the king would dictate that they protect him and keep him from harm. And he could play silly games, lie and deceive so he could manipulate his way to his son's side. But actions such as these had too long kept him back from doing as he would were he a mere citizen of the realm. As a father he would be allowed the right to search and aid his son. He would not need to be guarded, kept as a general who administers from afar. "Sauron's influence yet lives."

His hands suddenly tingled, as if longing for a knife to hold, an enemy to be vanquished. He did not want to wear the crown of the king in this, and so he put the cautions he would have taken in that aside and looked at his men as if they were companions, not soldiers to command. "Will you help me?" he asked.

And with that question, he saw a change come over them, a new light of respect coming into their eyes. And he understood for the first time that this is what it took to rule.

TBC


	69. Muddied Thoughts

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Eight: Muddied Thoughts_

Legolas's body felt heavy and unconnected, fevered and dim. He thought perhaps he was marching, but he couldn't be sure for every step felt as if he was moving through water, uncoordinated, sluggish. Unconnected to his own will. And his head was spinning, his thoughts meandering in a dizzy and disorienting fashion. He could not remember when he had started walking or how long he had been at it. He just knew that to stop was to delay them. That would be wrong somehow.

He focused on what was before him, around him. He heard the voices of his companions but he kept his eyes focused down, trying to stay upright, fearing he would fall if he looked anywhere but straight ahead. He seemed to be high above the ground, and that did not seem right. But then he realized he was still confused as to whether his legs really moved. It almost seemed they did, but he could not truly feel the muscles or ligaments stretching and extending as they would in his normal gait. Yet he moved and he could not piece how that would happen if he did not walk. Was there a horse? No, there was not. He must be walking then.

Muddled, he shook his head, focusing on the voices. His mind traced the image of his father and Gimli together in conversation. Was that right? Had he set out on this long trek with these two? Strangely, his father was lamenting while Gimli's voice rose in scathing abuse. He might have ignored the pair completely – truly all of this was a dream was it not? - had the contrary image not stood out in his mind. Thranduil was the cruel one, not Gimli. But that is not what he was hearing.

"Look at it! My home… it is utterly destroyed," Thranduil was saying from Legolas's back, yet Legolas watched him as he turned on his heel, gazing up at a forest blighted and set to ruin. _Dreaming… yes_, he thought. Thranduil's voice was soft but riddled with pain, and in Legolas's mind it matched the scene about him. The trees were dark, rot eating away at the limbs, black lichen covering every visible inch of their bark making them look as if they had been charred by a fire, singed. Webs and slithering creatures wove through their branches and putrid orange fungus carpeted their feet. He had seen this before in the southern wood and it hurt just to think of the damage, the ruin of it despite his heart being hardened to the experience.

Thranduil's eyes were moist, tears pooling but not spilling. His mouth turned down into a frown that threatened to become a desperate grimace and his pain was tangible. He knew he should feel vindicated for his father's regret, but instead the lament moved Legolas's heart. Thranduil's breath rattled with the shudder of anguish as he choked back a sob. "Such ruin… Such ruin!" he whispered, his words slow, pained. "I do not remember it being like this."

But the dwarf seemed the counter to this, almost bouncing on his toes, feeling glee where sympathy would be better put. He snarled in dangerous tones, gazing back at Thranduil as they continued their march. "You see here? This is what I spoke of… THEY did this to your wood. They are your enemies, jealous and hateful of what you had! They would see that you are destroyed. You have heard them talk," he said. Strangely, Legolas interpreted 'them' to mean Celeborn and Galadriel, though he had no outward reason for thinking this other than his father's previous consternation with the pair. But why was Gimli saying this? He had no reason to feel disdain for the lord and lady.

Suddenly the story was completed by his fever-sick mind, solidity given only because he seemed to be intolerant of unknowns. Blindly he had been following. Clearly they were in Mirkwood. He placed that first.

He reminded himself that Celeborn had claim on the southern portions of that wood. That must be where they were visiting and why. It seemed strange to Legolas though that Gimli would be talking with such disrespect to the lord and lady. He had had no bad feelings toward either of them in the real world. Nonetheless, this was just a dream so anything seemed possible. Still, it seemed so odd.

It felt like their journey had not been so long, but in his ill state he could not know for sure. Perhaps many days of travel had been done, though how he had been so encumbered as to not to notice it frustrated him. Still, he reminded himself again that this was a dream. He didn't like that he had to keep telling himself this. It was like he was shaking himself wakefulness each time he did.

Renewed by his understanding, he gazed again at the mired wood. The hurt of what he was seeing was not only in his heart but also in his flesh. He felt as if he should cry out his anger and his physical hurt. Hands reached out to the nearest tree, the bark craggy and rough to his fingertips. A hand bolstered him, set him erect. He did not even bother to look behind to see who had pushed him. They had to get there. That was all that mattered. But he couldn't help fixing on what was happening around him.

"Gone. Destroyed. What is there left for me now?" Thranduil was saying, and Legolas wanted to berate him, to tell him it had been like this for too long. Thranduil had done ill and had kept Legolas from routing the enemy as he wished. Perhaps if he had…? But that accusation fell away, for he found his anguish, his pain, mental and physical, matched that of Thranduil's regardless of the blame he might relegate the destruction to. He looked around at the blighted forest. Was this not his own lament? Could it be they shared similar feelings for what they loved? It had never seemed so before, and never had he thought he would empathize with his sire, but Legolas almost wished he could reach out to Thranduil then, embrace him, share this ache. The sadness in Thranduil's eyes, the tears of hurt, these felt like they were Legolas's.

His heart felt as if it was being squeezed, and he moaned as he tried to speak. And with that he lifted his head. Blinking, his eyes cleared and he could make out a vast open space with big sky, cold and dark. The end of night was with them and touches of color were lightening the sky; the sun had not come to rise but it was nearly with them. But he could see enough to be puzzled by this vision. It seemed that somehow they had stepped beyond the walls of the forest and onto a ravaged slope at the foot of a mountain.

_It is just a dream. _

He shivered as he realized that this did not fit the scene from a moment before, but again his fevered mind meted out a story to match what he saw. _These are the old mountains_, he decided. That must be where they were in Mirkwood, but further north than he expected. _Yes, that was it. And if so, could it be that the decimation had reached this far?_ That just made it hurt more. _No, please… _His heart twisted. This was closer to home than he had thought they might be. Thranduil was not the only one ignorant of the greatness of ruin that had come to his wood. And now he was seeing that the forest was gone, destroyed.

With eyes now open –_ Was I sleeping before? _-Gimli was there just as he had seen him, but Thranduil was somehow absent. _He stayed in the forest_, Legolas thought trying to put the scene before him together with what he had just overheard and rationalized in his mind.

Gazing ahead he saw that a chasm had been torn open in the landscape. Downed trees were left to rot on what looked to be a trampled wasteland. Few trees remained standing, and those that did looked to be almost dead, defeated by the same rot and decay found in the forest. _Beloved Mirkwood, _he thought. _How could this have been done to you?_ Was this not his father's cry?

He saw a wood further away, farther off in the valley, in the hills, still green though clearly old and dark. But he rejoiced in this. There was yet wood left untouched. Still, what had come of this region? "My forest…" Legolas whispered. But none seemed to hear him. His chin dipped forward and he thought perhaps his eyes closed again.

Thranduil then stepped forward, joining Gimli again. "We are almost there," the dwarf said, his eyes focusing on the valley, the devastation seemingly not the point for him.

Legolas suddenly found himself falling, his body dropping without warning, spinning in a dizzying whirl before slamming into the ground. He grunted as he made impact, a hard jolt shooting through his side as his hip and shoulder smacked the cold earth.

"Ai! No! Fool! You dropped him! What are you doing?"

"What matter is it? My home my home my home is destroyed!"

He felt hands groping him and a voice in his ear. "Are you hurt? Legolas? Speak to me!"

He groaned as he tried to stir, pressing his palms into the earth. He was rolled to his back and lifted. A hand brushed the hair from his face and he let his head fall back momentarily, languishing in the wretchedness of how he felt. His belly was roiling, his head pounding. Fever burned his brow, making him lethargic, heavy. But other than the sting from the impact, he did not think he was hurt. He looked up into the face of Gimli and remembered himself. He waved a hand as if to push the dwarf off him.

Gimli gazed up then, anger pinching his face into a snarl. "How dare you abandon your charge! You had but one task to do and that was to carry him, to keep him aright so there would be no more sickness! He is critical to what we do!" It was then Legolas followed his gaze and saw the dwarf spoke to not his father but to Mithtaur.

_Mithtaur_? Legolas blinked, trying to remember when the Ent had become a part of their journey.

The Ent ignored the berating, hands raised to his head as if unable to comprehend what he saw. "My home… my home…" he muttered, wandering forward toward the blighted land.

Confused, Legolas's eyes searched his surroundings, "Where is Thranduil?" His father was not visible to him. Mirkwood forest, which Legolas had thought behind them, was not there either.

The dwarf frowned, not seeming to like the question. "Thranduil? No… Why do you ask of him?"

Legolas knew he must appear befuddled, but his mind was not putting order to what was presently happening. Dream or not, he wanted to make some sense of this. "You were just speaking to him, were you not?" But in asking he realized the idea was unlikely. Muzzy and lost, he shook his head, bringing his hand to his brow. "It felt like he was here, with us," Legolas answered, a heavy wariness growing in him. But then he shook his head, saying aloud, "Nay, it cannot be. It is just more of this dream."

Gimli was still too near and angrily Legolas shrugged him off, trying to rise, not liking the close contact of the dwarf with his arms wrapped about him. It felt claustrophobic, too intimate, and he did not like this dwarf, this dream world creation.

"Thranduil? Here with us?" Gimli repeated back, allowing Legolas to sit up as he relinquished his hold.

"My heart felt it could reach out to him," Legolas said as he moved his hand to his chest, letting it fall there, his eyes looking around, searching.

"DO NOT!" Gimli suddenly barked, his hand clutching the elf's, and the fierceness of his voice caused Legolas to flinch. He blinked at the dwarf who was so unlike the friend he had known. But he reminded himself once again that this reality too was all part of a dream. Even this moment was not real and so he should not fear Gimli. Still, the dwarf was commanding him in a way that instilled anxiety. "DO NOT let your heart reach out to him lest you wish to sacrifice all that we seek."

Legolas scowled, trying to ignore the dwarf's demand. Instead he pushed off him, asking, "What place is this?"

Gimli smiled then, but it felt forced, malevolent. "We are almost there, my friend. We have returned to Mírnen."

"Mírnen?" Legolas questioned, gazing out, looking at what he recognized now was a lakebed, emptied and clearly torn apart. He saw what appeared to be the remnants of a battle, the earth horribly battered. "This does not look to be Mírnen as I knew it," he said.

"That is as I saidsaidsaid," Mithtaur seconded, glancing back to them as he pointed out to the slow slope that led to what Legolas supposed had once been the lake. "Look at what has come of my home!"

"What it looks like at present does not matter, for you know it is not real! We merely need to return to our starting place," this world's Gimli answered abruptly. Then seeming to realize his short temper, his voice softened, and he held his hands out to soothe. "You must understand… For you both, what you had will be restored once we pass the threshold and free the way back to the real world. I am almost able to bring you to the ones you love! That is what you want, is it not? Be patient, and trust not what is before you."

And then Legolas remembered what this journey was truly about. _Faeldaer_. Yes, he recalled then and felt almost ashamed for having forgotten or mistrusted Gimli's intent. Again and again he seemed to lose focus. _Faeldaer_, he repeated to himself as reminder. _Faeldaer. _And for Faeldaer he was willing to put aside his trepidation, his hurt over the damage done to Mirkwood. Or not. He could not tell now if any of what he had seen before was real.

But Gimli was not done speaking. He squeezed Legolas shoulder, his grip uncomfortably strong. "I would insist that you not commune with Thranduil."

Legolas looked at him quizzically. "He is not here. How could I speak to him?"

"In spirit!" the dwarf uncharacteristically roared. "Remember everything he has done to you and stay firm! He will destroy the bond you have with Faeldaer if you do not guard yourself!"

Legolas did not understand what Gimli was saying. _Commune with Thranduil? _he wondered. How would he do such a thing? Did Gimli think Legolas could speak to his father when he was not present?

But Mithtaur, looking wretched in his misery, shook his head to negate this, his whole body swaying side to side in the movement. "This does not feel right. I think. I think. I think we should accept our fates. I think I should surrender to Fangorn and face the consequences of my actions while Master Legolas should return to the care of his father. Thranduil-Elf-King-Lord-of-the-Greenwood seems to deeply care for his son, giving over to your deception because he believed what you would said and hoped that it would do him good."

Gimli turned then, shouting. "Hush and mind business that is your own! You are but a fool and I have no time for your maudlin thoughts." Legolas looked into the dwarf's face then, thoroughly astonished by the behavior he was seeing, the words he was hearing. Gimli seemed to realize he was being scrutinized at that moment and he stiffened. Then shifting his demeanor as he righted his stance, he waved a hand, as if doing so erased his diminishing words. Still speaking to the Ent, he said, "Go bring more Draught from the font you left behind. We are nearly out and it is dire that the spring still flows."

It was then that Legolas realized it was Mithtaur and Gimli he had heard speaking before, not his father and the dwarf. He felt strangely disappointed by that, lonely, lost even. "I want no more of the Draught," he murmured, raising a hand to his head as the Ent shuffled away dejectedly. His mind was muddy, his thoughts confused, but the dwarf pressed him.

"It is better for you if you drink it. It is part of what will return you to Mírnen."

Legolas shook his head, partly to negate this, partly to clear his thoughts. None of what the dwarf was saying made sense to him and he was left only to comply blindly if he was to follow. And at this moment he was not sure he wanted to do so. "My father wished something good for me?" he asked. The question solicited a twist in his heart.

Suddenly he realized how foolish it had been to travel as he was doing now. He was ill. He had thought he was in Mirkwood. Clearly his mind had been playing tricks on him. He remembered everything then of their time in Lothlorien, of his father sitting at his side, and again he began to question how much of the declaration from the dwarf that all of this was a dream was really true.

What if all he had been told was not a dream? What if this truly was reality, that he had slept through the real crime and that Sauron had not been vanquished at the fall of Barad-Dur as they had thought.

But would he have really been a thrall to Sauron's whims? Would he really surrender to the Dark Lord's whims to be ravished for reasons of some odd proclivity on Sauron's part to rule just _him?_ Mentally he scoffed, adding to his list of nonsensical outcomes … that his father had yielded to the good, that Gimli had gone to the bad, that his pain and physical suffering were actual… That Faeldaer was _not_ real.

_No! _He pushed these aside, discrediting them as the very thoughts came to him.

Was it so hard, he wondered, that he should want something so simple as to live in the quiet world he had made with Faeldaer? He knew it was a bubble, a hole in time created by a remnant curse of the Dark Lord. And he knew too that there he would have nothing but an eternity of utopian sameness there, watching the outward world as it evolved, unable to touch it, but to see it pass regardless. How was that so different than answering the call to journey west? The only difference was that in Mírnen he would be with the one he loved.

Yet, there were parts of his present world that he liked. Thranduil, for example. And at the urging of that thought, a warming feeling of love softened him in a way he could not recall from more recent years. The feeling was familiar and comforting, and he welcomed it. In that moment, he sensed Thranduil was close to him, but not in a way that made him stiffen or feel fear. This feeling resonated at a deeper level, as if he had stirred up some old childhood recollection of his father as a better elf, and nostalgically he was visiting again. He longed to suffuse himself in the tender sensation that he was loved without expectation.

Was this what Gimli was saying he should forsake?

But he reminded himself also that to surrender to this world meant to give up on Faeldaer. He would not do that.

_Illness is doing this,_ he thought. He turned his eyes to the sky, to the horizon and the rising sun, feeling anguished by his troubling thoughts and the helpless state he was in. In that moment, destroyed though it was, he wanted to go home, to go to Mirkwood, for it was home. Home. And what was more, he wanted to be consoled by the lament he shared with Thranduil, even if he only shared it in a dream. They had that in common, and at the moment he wanted something that could make him feel he was not utterly on his own. He felt his breath shudder with the cold, but also with longing, and fear. He felt so desperate and alone.

Gimli's gaze fixed on him harder and he could feel it like it was a tangible thing. The dwarf's eyes were hard and strange. It seemed almost he could read Legolas's thoughts. "You must ignore everything you see and feel at this moment. You know it is not real. You wish to go home; we will be on our way," the dwarf said placing a hand on his back. And in that moment, Legolas found himself descending into a hazy state once more. Heavy limbs. Head barely able to be held up. Eyelids closing of their own volition. He felt as if he was buried in mud.

In the next moment he felt water trickling down his chin, spilling both into his mouth and across his chest. He swallowed without thinking before he realized he was drinking. And the hands holding the waterskin from which he drank were his own. But, wait… he did not remember uncorking the flask, thinking he must drink, pulling a draw from the bottle… He dropped the flask then, not wanting it, frightened by the unknowing actions he had just performed.

"You are yet hurt. Let me help." Gimli spoke anew, and this time he felt himself being held aright. But he didn't want this. He wanted to be gone from the dwarf's ministering, feeling a pervading distrust moving him. Vacantly he looked out and saw the Ent returning to them, the sun rising behind him and reflecting pink and lavender light on the torn ground. Barely registering as thought, he mused that perhaps Mithtaur would help him if he cried out. But Legolas could muster no sound, and instead his ears were ringing with Gimli's words, spoken in a voice that no longer seemed to be the dwarf's. He was uttering a strange language Legolas did not know. It felt dark, as if it might hurt his ears if uttered in full voice. But that seemed to matter little for the sound resonated in a place beyond just his hearing. It lived inside his head, and in that place it seemed almost to rule him. He felt overwhelmed by the words, as if they commanded him. And then they coalesced into thoughts he could understand. _It is almost done. We shall not be kept apart this time_, the strange voice spilling from the dwarf's mouth said. He was frightened, but he found himself unable to fend it off. _This time we will be joined, and our spirits will become one as your thoughts merge with mine. We will live for eternity as we were meant to. _

But then he could see Faeldaer, and the thought occurred to him that it was he who actually spoke. Could it be? Was this the portal back to the one he loved as Gimli had promised? He sighed in relief, welcoming the love he longed to find in that savior elf, and in his mind he saw those golden eyes pouring into him, nourishing him with new hope. Yes, it was Faeldaer, and as the thought formed, the vision of his lover came into his mind. The sun shone behind him just as the sun began shining over the plains before him in the valley. _My sun,_ he thought joyously. Faeldaer's head was cast in a halo of light. And those amber-colored eyes shone, undiminished in the shadow of the more brilliant light. In fact, they almost seemed to glow, catching snatches of the sunlight about them until it was as if the eyes held the very fire of the sun. Fire burned, and Legolas felt himself draw back slightly. Trepidation nagged him. The eyes were too bright, too intense. It was as if the gaze burned him.

Legolas tried to pull away then, wary, frightened by the growing transformation. He could feel a hand pressing into his skin and the knife pain in his leg returned with intensity. He felt heat and at the same time it felt like something was draining all the strength from him leaving him cold. He felt heavy, thick, as if he were being buried in the voice which echoed through his mind. _You will be mine,_ It said.

And the eyes merged. No longer did he see Faeldaer's face. All he saw were the eyes moving together, melding into one eye. One eye. One eye. And he shrank back.

_Faeldaer…? Where…?_

But no, Faeldaer was not there. Instead there was one eye, lined in fire, staring into him, piercing him… !

Sauron!

One Eye!

Pure evil!

It could see him!

He tried to tear himself away, feeling himself set afire by that terrifying stare. It burned him, deeply, below the level of skin. He tried to call out for help, seeking Mithtaur as he had thought before, but the Eye was unrelenting. It possessed him. He was spellbound.

And the pain… the pressure of the hand was on his leg, on his brow… these were intensified by the Eye's torturous gaze. It wanted him. He felt It rake his body with Its unrelenting stare, claws ripping at his body from the place of the wound. The wound! Such pain! He gave voice to his fear and pain and he moaned in the agony of these things. "NO!" he said aloud, feeling his lips move, his throat drawing out his scream. But the hand pressed harder and his voice choked. _Help me_, he cried in his mind, regardless.

Suddenly he was shoved and a voice was answering. "You will leave him be! I will stand no more of this!" It seemed it was his father saying this. Or perhaps the Ent. His mind could make no sense of it. Either way, the favoring response seemed far away, as if through a cloud of dirt too thick to see or really hear properly. He fell back, dropping to the ground like a limp doll, his body lifeless and unwilling. But he heard more voices, the sound of shouting between two forces, terrible crashing and crunching noises, and the shudder of the ground beneath him.

And then an answer came to his mind. Unsuspecting, deep. It was love, penetrating, comforting._ I am coming! _And the answering call came from a place he was told not to look. It was his father who answered him.

The pain suddenly diminished. The Eye fled his mind. It let go of him and he was free of Its pain. He sighed gratefully as he answered the feeling. _I don't understand what is happening. _

No more could he offer as a moment later the hand on his brow returned. But it was not like before. It did not feel as if it was digging into his very thoughts. The dwarf's voice came into his awareness then. It no longer spoke that strange and disturbing language. Instead it said in the Common tongue, "You will do as I say. There is work to be done and I need you to work with me. Be still as I take care of what must be done here."

Gimli was gone then, and Legolas heard his heavy boots march away. Distantly he heard the heaving breaths of another, of Mithtaur, and then the mutterings of the dwarf rose above. And then next he heard a rumble, the Ent crying out. The ground seemed to topple, to spill over on itself beneath him.

He found himself falling into what seemed to be a pit then, but in truth he knew it to be a silent sleep. Fleetingly as he spiraled into this descent, this heavy void, he thought of his father, thinking that perhaps it was he would come to his aid. The world was not real, but it felt more a nightmare than a dream. _Help me,_ were his last thoughts before the ability to think at all was lost to him.

TBC


	70. A New Voice

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Sixty-Nine: A New Voice_

Thranduil had named It 'Passion' in the Elven tongue, but that name did not do It justice. Its given name, spoken in the Dwarf language meant 'want,' but not want like that spawned by love or yearning. That was too soft. _Vaenduzk_ was Its name, and that word meant want of the kind that cannot be slaked by mere possession. _Vaenduzk_ was infinite, unobtainable, insatiable. It was want that could be appeased for a time, but it did not go away.

Its history was like many of the other Dwarf rings. It had once been owned by Korin, a lesser-known Dwarf lord who had been one of the original Seven Kings chosen by Sauron for His gift. Korin had originated dwellings in the southern mountains of Eryn Lasgalen before Oropher or Thranduil had ever marched into those lands and he had been one to foster good between elf- and dwarf-kind in those days. Then again, _Vaenduzk_ had been a simpler gem then as well lending Its skills to the better because It did not bend to dominance. However, It did long for gold, like all of the Dwarf Rings, and that was Its dark quality. Though It helped forge the halls of Oropher's first palace, mimicking the works of the dwarves who had built Thingol's fortress of Menegroth, Its baser self pressed lusts and single-minded greed to create unrest, thievery and war. In the end It was responsible for the animosities that erupted between the two races in the Greenwood. Hatred came between them but _Vaenduzk_ could not help what It was.

In _Vaenduzk_'s history, the dwarves It ruled had come to end by measures of their own pursuit of treasure and power. Over and again, each dwarf had overreached, striving to gain what was beyond normal measure. Through animosities or just plain carelessness, each succumbed to a cruel death.

And each in kind thought he was better than the last and felt they could contain their wants, their passions, thinking they would not be like any of the others. But _Vaenduzk_ was greater than all of them, and each in turn had yielded to the power of a yearning so great that it vanquished love or common sense. No dwarf had truly been worthy of all the Ring could bestow upon him, and so each had been taught the might of Its will.

Still, the originators of the Dwarf Rings had made them like that race, indomitable and sure-minded. Sauron was angered by the failure of the Dwarf Rings in those days for He could not control them, even through the One Ring. They were not swayed by Sauron's influence except to enrich their thirst for gold.

But _Vaenduzk_ came into Sauron's possession when the Dark Lord went into hiding after the fall of Numenor. Without elven overseers, _Vaenduzk_ was remade by Him, and Its powers were strengthened. No longer did It feel satisfaction with gold. From that point forward It desired also control.

But _Vaenduzk_ was not happy that It been handed over to an Elf after Its remaking. For hundreds of years It felt It was ruled by an inferior. And so It had been patient to the point of near betrayal when the dwarf Gimli had claimed It; It had taken Its time before asserting Itself so as to seem tamed and made minor. None of this was true, It just did not want to be possessed by the Elf, Thranduil, again.

Granted, some of Its makers had been of Elfkind, but _Vaenduzk_ had been crafted for Dwarf use. It had been imbued with qualities that made Its powers accessible only to that race. The Elf that had claimed It, Thranduil, was weak in comparison to the Dwarves, and _Vaenduzk_ did not wish to go back to serving a lesser being who did not possess such strengths.

Still, the Ring had been coy in its allure. It had slyly and slowly bullied the dwarf into submission, and _Vaenduzk _was proud of how wily It had been. Gimli had not even been aware that the Ring had been gaining on him, lulling his will into passive complacency. It was almost as if he had slept through all that _Vaenduzk _had pressed.

While _Vaenduzk_ was an accomplice to Its Master's wishes, It was not happy to see Itself minimized by the fate It was working toward. And to that, the will of Gimli was playing. It was not outward, it was not concerted, but somehow the dwarf had perceived the Ring's hesitation. Buried under the layers of will_ Vaenduzk_ used to suffocate the dwarf, Gimli was playing with this, bringing forward the lessening _Vaenduzk_ would have to surrender under the Master.

"Small work yet," the Ring made the Dwarf speak as the elf was lowered to the ground. It looked down on the Elf, pain clearly written in his expression and It felt the Dwarf's compassion stir. Fevered heat rose from the elf's skin, a sheen of sweat bathing Legolas's brow. For the elf, his color was as pale as his hair, but the tips of his ears and cheeks were flushed. _Vaenduzk_ smiled. The Elf was unconscious and walking in the realm of elven dreams just as _Vaenduzk_ willed. Legolas was barely aware that he was being hauled along.

_Vaenduzk _pressed the waterskin into the Elf's hand, asserting Its will into Its captive again to drink. The Ring suspected rebellion was beginning to rise. It could not read the Elf's thoughts, but the previous mention of Thranduil was worrying. It had not anticipated the 'bonding' link between parent and child to emerge.

Therefore It did not hesitate to offer the very last of the Draught to the Elf. It preferred the Elf insensate and tamed, for he was the lynchpin to all that was to come. But when the draught-filled waterskin was handed over, Legolas shook his head, pushing it away. "Water?" he asked in a weakened voice.

"This is water," _Vaenduzk_ answered, but the elf shook his head again, his complexion turning a paler shade.

"It is Entdraught. My head is spinning enough. Please… just water… not of the Ent," he said, and the Ring grew wary again. Now was not the time for the Elf to question or defy. It pressed a hand to the elf's back, the physical contact needed to send Its will onward. And with that, the Ring called to the stinging wound that was the true source of Legolas's fever to add to the assault. The Elf hissed in misery.

"Of course. Water," the Ring said in the Dwarf's voice, blithely ignoring the Elf's sickness, and offering him the waterskin again. This time the Elf accepted; in his ill state he didn't bother to look up or notice the difference. After a long draw, he leaned even further into the rock, and _Vaenduzk_ was pleased to see the Elf succumbing again to the tonic's effect.

"Water?" Legolas asked then, his eyes focusing for the first time as he looked at the flask. "It seems not right."

"Truly it is water," Gimli was made to say, taking the waterskin from the Elf's hand. "Your illness is causing this, not the drink." It was a lie, of course, but It didn't think the Elf really considered much of anything real at the moment.

And less than a minute later Legolas went slack, sagging to the ground. _This is a matter to be dealt with later_, the Ring thought, for It had work to do. Collapsed like a dropped rag doll, the unconscious Elf's head fell to one side, one arm draped across his chest, eyes closed.

The Ring paused over the Elf, passing a hand over the injured leg, pondering this hurt once more. This was where _Vaenduzk_ knew a small shard of the Master's devilry remained embedded. A splinter. Such a small thing was a wonderful tool within Its arsenal. The Elf was fevered by the injury to the point of delirium, and that was almost the same as crafting dreams for the elf to follow. This was the Master's device but the Ring employed it. _Vaenduzk_ sent another stab upon Its captive for the sheer joy of it. It watched for the creased brow that marred the Elf's face and the soft moan that told It the Elf hurt. _They thought they had healed him_, It thought, _but they did not remove all of the poison_._ Such an insignificant thing, _It added, _a mere splinter that had been a part of the lance the Ent had initially stabbed him with. _That spear had been doused in the lake water at the time, and the trace fragment was enough to cause the wound to continually hurt now, never quite healing, a fraction of evil yet encased within the Elf's body.

But then _Vaenduzk _felt it, the shudder. Subtle though it was, the tremble could be perceived and the Ring realized the pattern of the earth's rumble. Horse hooves. It murmured a low curse, knowing their time was near done. _Vaenduzk_ had suspected the others would puzzle it out soon enough, but It had thought too they might take a little longer. Yet now they were here and It knew they would try to stop the Master.

"And now to the cave." And with that, the Ring pulled the Elf up and threw his body over his shoulder.

xxxxxxx

Gimli had been a fool. If you could call it sleep then he had almost literally slept through the entirety of the Ring's manipulations. It was frightening how powerful the spell of the gem was, and Gimli knew he had to master it if he was going to see to their rescue. If nothing else, he could perceive the Ring's intention by action alone, and from that he felt It meant to deliver Legolas to Sauron and to let the dwarf be sacrificed so the Dark Lord possessing Legolas's body could wear the Dwarf Ring. Yet Gimli thought any fool could discern that. The Ring had shut him off. Still Gimli had no intention of letting any of this happen.

Despite the fact that the Ring did not speak to him, and in more cases than few the Ring ruled his very will, Gimli could perceive something of weakness in It. He thought perhaps he felt lingering doubt in It, an ambivalence. When he calmed himself enough to try to view the world through Its perceptions, he could even sense that It feared being made less that It already was. To discern this though, Gimli had to surrender to It, and coming back to himself was quite difficult. In body he was already the Ring's pawn.

Still, through these perceptions he could see Its thoughts. It did not want to don the hand of an elf. Gimli dared not draw awareness to the fact that the elf's mind would be manifested by Sauron himself. To the Ring the body was that of an elf, and for that It would be limited, made less. Granted, Gimli discerned, the Ring would still be wielded, but not to the extent It could be now. The Ring liked the power It had.

And for this, Gimli saw that the Ring yet remained a separate entity. Sauron was Its master, but he was not so much the Ring's Ruler. The One Ring had been that. It was gone. Now the Ring thought of Itself first, and to this Gimli saw Its weakness. It was self-involved, something the dwarf could exploit. He could exploit it that is so long as he remained focused and aware. Withdrawing into the Ring's dominance, he nourished the doubt he was able to foster.

In body Gimli looked out. He saw that he was made to haul Legolas up a short climb of rock and debris, making way to the cave Gimli had seen the last time they had been to this forest. Legolas's legs dragged behind him, for there was no pretty way to carry someone who stood nearly three heads above him and he could not do this without making his friend's legs or arms bounce and scrape on the sharp rocks he endeavored to climb. Apologetically the dwarf inwardly winced knowing Legolas's limbs were being battered in this exercise. Feeding on the Ring's ignorance of Gimli's ability to read Its intent, or perhaps to sway It, the Dwarf let the Ring entertain thought of the Master's reaction to any injury that would be forced upon Legolas. He could feel the hesitation this invoked and knew that though the Ring did not wish to be ruled by an inferior elf but neither did It want Its Master's wrath. Abruptly the Ring halted, easing Legolas down. Gimli then planted the reminder of the Dark Lord's wrath in the Ring's perception and It was gentle in how he put Legolas aside.

Still, a sneer was emitted as the Ring spoke. "Do not think to cheer your good fortune, Dwarf." The Ring forced Gimli's eyes up so as to see that the situation was still at benefit for It. "I can send these rocks upon him anytime I choose." It seemed Gimli's manipulations were not so clandestine as he had hoped.

Yet despite the Ring anticipating him, Gimli was certain that he was able to guard his thoughts from It, for if the Ring could read him, It would know that Gimli was not going to be caught off in that falsity. The Dark Lord had no intention of harming Legolas. By now Gimli completely understood that if Legolas was to be the host body to the villainy that was Sauron, then Sauron would want that body intact. For that matter, Gimli knew he too was safe, at least so long as Sauron remained houseless. Through the Ring Gimli had become arms and legs for Sauron. But what neither the Ring nor the Dark Lord anticipated was the Dwarf's willingness to make sacrifices for the sake of their failure. The Dark Lord did not realize that those opposed to Him would do _anything_ to keep Him down, including dying for that cause. Gimli doubted any of Sauron's minions had been so selfless.

Of course, Gimli hoped it would not come to that.

But that small piece of knowledge was his to use if so needed. Now he needed to find a way to reclaim his own body and will so he would not have to use it.

It was all about surprise he came to decide, doing what the Ring had done to him only in the reverse. He must find a moment when It was not concentrated on him. He wondered then if the Ring could be destroyed. The One Ring, of course, had only one means to meet Its end (in the fires of Mt. Doom), but Gimli did not think this Ring so indestructible as that greater Ring. Elves had been among those who crafted this Dwarf Ring, and they would not have used fires of immense evil to do so.

To this Gimli watched as if from a distance as the Ring pressed him to enter the cave. He remembered standing here before and feeling such compulsion to enter. Now he recognized it was the Ring that had been drawing him in, pushing him to explore and perhaps do now what It ruled his body to do.

He followed the guidance It gave, climbing over rock and rubble into the crag carved by the escaping water of the lake. Clearly a flume, like a wormhole sheered on its length, had been opened up as the cliff side had been washed away, and he could look up now while standing at its entrance to see where that opening had once existed on the ledge far above. He and Legolas had once stood up there while fleeing the crazed Ent. Now that ledge was gone and the rocky wall, torn and rent, was all that remained.

He saw the route the water had taken when it spilled from the lake. Of course the greatest part of it had fallen away into the river, sweeping outward to the Sea, diluting it so the Dark Lord's power had been made impotent. He noted now though, with that opened chute, that some of the water traveled into that tube and through to the cave where he now stood. He was sure some remnant of the water, and in turn Sauron's spirit, existed in the hollow down below. Surely He was not so great as before? Yet any remnant of the Dark Lord's existence was still a frightening prospect.

The Ring allowed him to look no further. He was marched into the crevice where the dark seeped in. And from there the Ring began Its task.

TBC

A/N: The history of the Seven Kings and their Rings of Power is pretty much untold in Tolkien's tomes and therefore the tale of _Vaenduzk_ and Its possession by a Dwarf lord named Korin had to be created by me in order to fit to this story. If I've erred in my Ringlore please do not hesitate to tell me. Many thanks!


	71. Breathing Life Into What Was No More

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy: Breathing Life Into What Was No More_

It was midday by the time they arrived at the same place on the river in Fangorn where they had camped before. Thranduil looked around him noting how unchanged the environment was. The ground was yet turned over, torn and spoiled, with huge patches of landscape missing. It was a maimed land, something abused, wounded. Nothing had come to settle the land yet and winter was upon it, freezing all into place, tethering it to this desolate ruin.

Thranduil knew nature was forgiving. This was one of Yavanna's gifts. Where hurt came, she would correct it - so long as all the toxins were removed. But nature had not converged upon the land. This part of the wood looked like a war had been fought, and indeed one had been. Only the war was done, yet Thranduil felt menace. It felt poisonous still. There was work to be done.

But this was not what was occupying his mind. Instead he was hunting out the feelings he knew came from his son. Nothing. He found nothing. Wondering aloud, he said, "Where are they?" He spoke to no one, yet Arod nudged him, snorting as if to iterate the same thought. Standing there at the riverbed, he could feel evil's presence, but it was not here, not in this water. Nenya told him so. Yet what he wanted was the straining sense of Legolas and Nenya gave him no sign of that. So why had he been compelled to come here? Had the Ring simply wanted him to return so he might fix it? That was not his mission. He felt betrayed. He sought his son!

Already his folk had charged up the hill to investigate the barren lake, what had once been Mírnen. There too he knew Sauron's presence was gone for he had seen it emptied, all the evil of him swept away with the tide of gravity and the mountain spray.

And yet a darkness was still here. He wondered if it masked his son's presence. At the same time he wondered if he was wrong…

Arod nudged him again, pressing, as if he expected Thranduil to do more. The elf turned and brushed his hands over the horse's flanks. "I know," he said. "But we must have faith. Where else would they go if not here?" He realized he was saying this to appease his own doubts, but the effect seemed to sooth the horse.

The animal shifted, resting its weight on its other foreleg, and he thought then of the horse's injuries. He stepped around the massive body to inspect the wound at Arod's shoulder. The horse murmured a rumble, as if in warning, but Thranduil felt the horse trusted him. Indeed it was a superficial injury and it had not delayed them, but Thranduil still ran his hand over the points of the horse's flesh, singing soft coos as he did so as to calm Arod. He denoted through the rising heat on the flesh where injury had been taken. It was clear the animal had been the target of blows, the bleeding cut the most obvious of them. Fortunately some healing salve was all that was needed to treat the horse physically, but trepidation was a side effect of his experience, and only Thranduil had been allowed to near him so as to administer treatment. _You will trust again_, he thought. In many ways this thought paralleled what he might wish upon his son. The abuse Legolas had suffered had been greater than anything this animal had endured and such blithe ministrations would not work with his son. And yet Legolas needed someone who could tend the wounds. He had thought that might be Gimli. Now he was no longer so sure.

"Where are they?" he asked again, not expecting the horse to answer, but instead using the sound of his voice to sooth both himself and the animal. And in that he sent out his hope, his heart, seeking his son.

_Speak to me, my son,_ he beseeched, yet no answer came. That did not mean Legolas was dead, he told himself. He knew his heart would tell him if that was true.

"Lord Thranduil!" He looked up to where his man beckoned him. The elf stood upon a firm base of stone from which the cliff emerged. The wall where he stood was marred at its peak by the riven gap cut by the lake that had been opened up, evidence of Thranduil's own hand, his work in defeating the horror of Sauron as the keeper of the once-jeweled lake. If only that had been enough… and from there he could trace the sluice of residue that marked the water's cascade. It spilled out onto a wall that was amazingly intact. A tale could be told there of the firm bedrock upon which the lake had been formed. Yet this nagged him. Had he not been told that a copper mine had once been honed from caves beneath the lake? Should the route of water not have cut deeper? Yet this thought was pushed from his mind as the man waved him on. "Here, now, my lord! We have need of you," the elf called.

"Come, Arod," Thranduil urged, suddenly feeling fear. Was it Legolas they had found? The horse followed without need of lead.

The two scrambled up the hillside, choosing the shortest route even if it was the steeper, Arod charging the last several yards to race past the elf so as not to skid back. Thranduil took handholds of exposed roots and vines to pull himself up, landing a few moments later, winded but knowing still he had beaten time. Somehow it seemed time was critical.

"Here, my lord," the elf who had cried to him called as he ran to offer a hand. He pulled him up by the elbow and then tugged him to follow.

"What is it?" Thranduil asked, jogging alongside. His mind immediately considered the possibilities of what they might find.

But the elf did not need to answer, for they came to the gaping hole that had once been the lake. And Thranduil saw what it was that compelled the elf to draw him there.

Thranduil paused, took a moment to breathe, sucking down the gasp that threatened to spill into a sob. And then he found his composure, calling out orders as he stepped to the edge of the precipice. "Get him out of there! Now!" He need not have said the words for his men were already clambering into the hole, ropes in hand, calling out for their horses so that they might make use of their strength.

And yet as desperate as his words came, deep inside he was relieved. It was not Legolas they had found.

"Mithtaur," Thranduil whispered as he stood in watch. That he—that any of them really - had deduced the Ent's presence on the decimated lake bed was rather startling since all that could be seen of him was his exposed limbs, skewed and turned at odd angles beneath a mass of rubble and green-grey clay. From outward appearance, it seemed a tree had toppled into the hole and in years' time the earth had filled over it. Yet he was seen, a foot, a few branches still exposed and Thranduil wavered at the edge of the hole in worry over his son.

Extra rope was tossed into the crevice as the men scrambled over the Ent, making way to his face, his mouth, all to get him air. Mithtaur was not moving, and Thranduil worried he was dead. He wondered how long an Ent could survive without air breathed in a normal method. He reminded himself that the lord of the forest was tree in nature, and so perhaps he yet took in air. Even if so, what he got was limited; so much of him was covered.

A myriad of thoughts raced through Thranduil's mind, but he spoke none of them, instead focusing his attention on the rescue his people attempted. Still, his worries prevailed as he silently asked, _What of Legolas? Is he to be found here too?_

He grabbed one of the many ropes tossed to the ground and fashioned a quick loop, tying it around Arod's neck and assuring the animal with instructions as he did. He then clambered down into the hole, joining his men and using the end of rope still in hand to tie about one of the many oversized rocks covering over the Ent. His hands and sleeves grew muddy as he pushed through the muck. The dirt was heavy and thick and he had to work his balance to remain standing lest he topple over as Mithtaur had. "Away, now, Arod," he called as he leapt back out of the crevice to run at the horse's side. Though he strained under the weight, Arod dug his hooves into the ground and cleared the rock over the ledge. "Well done," he whispered in the horse's ear. He untied the rock and backed Arod to the hole once more. "Again." His men were doing the same with their own mounts while those without their steeds dug in by hand to clear dirt from the Ent's face and torso.

"Is he alive?" Thranduil asked when Mithtaur's face was finally exposed. Climbing again into the hole, Thranduil leapt to the Ent's prone body, straddling his inert form. They dug deep to try to clear space to wrap the rope around his torso. "Awake! Awake!"

The summoning worked. Mithtaur stirred, groaning. The sound of wood snapping and cracking pitted the air and Thranduil immediately leapt away. The Ent rolled but he stopped a moment later in a gasp of pain. Thranduil could see branches had been broken, and one major limb was torn at his shoulder. Ents were not meant to lie down, and it was clear the fall had done damage. Yet he coughed and gasped, trying to rise despite obvious pain. His actions were awkward and lurching and the movement created a cascade as the walls of the pit rained down on him. "Hold, Mithtaur, do not move," Thranduil ordered. Carefully they dug the rest of the way around the Ent's torso until a clearing could be found beneath him. More ropes were tossed down, and multiple horses were lined up awaiting the order from their masters. A single charge was all that it took to bring the Ent aright. Once perpendicular, Mithtaur used his own legs to climb the hole the rest of the way.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," the Ent said as he came to rest on what had once been the shoreline. Thranduil could see his wounds bled sap, and he wondered of the collapsed limb and if it could be saved. "There was not much more life for me in that pit. I was withering and you saved me."

"How did you come to be buried there?" one of the elves asked, and the Ent heaved a heavy sigh.

"Thrown. I was thrown by the dwarf," Mithtaur answered, shaking his head and groaning as he shrugged the mangled shoulder.

"How is that possible?" Thranduil asked, anger starting to boil in him as he imagined what had come about.

"The Dwarf Ring commands the earth. I was made unbalanced, and when I fell into the hole I was then buried."

"Legolas was then with you," Thranduil confirmed. He did not need the Ent to answer as he drew forward ahead of the others. Were Mithtaur a Man or an Elf he would have claimed him by the collar and shook him, so deep did his emotions run. As it was all he could do was shove him at chest level. "But what called you to serve in the first place? Did you not see the madness?"

"Did you?" the Ent retorted, ire also rising in him. It was the first time Thranduil had seen of a shift in mood. "Nay, I did not recognize the evil before it was too late. Imagine how it waswaswas. For years uncounted my mind has wandered in a place quite unlike this bleak land. I wanted it not! I wanted what was joyous to me! I wanted to be special… a mender… a creator. The Dwarf promised to return me to Mírnen as it had been before this-this-this destruction-havoc-ruin. He had convinced me to put on the ruse, to lead others to believe I would flee to the north," the Ent proclaimed. "Alas alas alas," he then bowed his head and wept. "While I did my part to create this fiction, his pledge was not fulfilled."

Thranduil could not help feeling the heartbreak of the Ent. He knew well that in the few weeks of Legolas's ordeal his son had come to accept and believe the life presented to him in his dreams. It had been a beautiful life, fulfilling and wholesome. Who would not prefer that to the reality of destruction and decay? And for the first time Thranduil realized it had to be the same for Mithtaur - only more, for the Ent had been deluded for too many years to even know. The Elf suddenly felt terrible that he had not spared more time to console and reason sense to the reality of the Ent's new life. He was as vulnerable as Legolas, and Thranduil had been wrong to not consider this, ignoring what was obvious had he only considered it. Though he wished not to be cruel, still he had to ask, "What of Legolas? What has come of him?"

"I cannotnotnot say. The Draught font had run dry, and once that was discovered I was discarded as you saw here."

"Surely though," Thranduil began with a start but then eased off, gentling in remembrance of Mithtaur's distress. "Surely though you were privy to some of Gimli's plan."

Mithtaur gazed at Thranduil then, meeting his eyes. "My lord, it was not Gimli who set this action into motion. Gimli is a hostage to this darkness as much as I was. I suppose he is captured by dreams as well. He is not not not as you knew him. The Ring commands him now. I think It saw no more purpose for me and that is why I was pushed aside. Aye, it is the Ring that rules him." And in saying this Thranduil felt the stab in his heart for he knew what it was to be controlled by that single bauble. He felt guilt for that, suddenly, deeply, for when the Ring had presented Itself to the Dwarf, had Thranduil in his urging for an ally not promised he would keep Gimli from succumbing to It? Had he not sworn he would safeguard him from the signs he swore he knew so well? This disaster was of Thranduil's making, for he had forgotten his duty.

His head came up when the Ent spoke again. He had not even realized his posture had dipped with the weight of his failure. Yet he felt encouragement surge through him with Mithtaur's next words. "The Dwarf said we were near."

Thranduil needed those words. Though he had put out his heart, searching for Legolas, there had been no reply. He had worried that he had been wrong in his choice to come back to Fangorn Wood, but now the Ent was confirming his decision had been right. Somewhere here, somewhere he was near. And having this assured him, he felt some relief because he knew too that Legolas was still alive. He would have felt it if his son's spirit had perished. They had time yet.

"You give me hope," Thranduil said, but he felt tears coming to his eyes and he dared not lose his composure now. "Come, we must set you right and mend what has been done to you." And with that his men moved to the task of trying to repair the broken limb. Thranduil knew this would be a matter of wrappings and healing tinctures that were beyond his knowledge. His people were Silvan green elves. Their nature made them akin to the trees. And so he let them set to their work.

He left them then and strolled to the cliff edge, gazing out. His eyes went down to follow the river once more. Sauron had been pushed away into that moving basin, made to meld with the flow of water never-ending, merging with an infinite resource, diluting to the point that his malice and evil were made indeterminate, nil. But when Thranduil called upon Nenya and stretched out his senses, he could still feel Him. Somehow He yet survived. He had not sensed this before, but they were in proximity to Sauron's spirit and now he knew something of Him remained. And further, weak though He was, Legolas was still important to Him.

He blinked, thinking all this but not really looking out. He replayed all he had learned in his mind. _The Dwarf said we were near_, Mithtaur had said. And then he looked truly, not letting his heart do the searching but his eyes. There was something not right here. He seemed to recall a difference in this view, looking out. He contemplated all the changes that had occurred. And then he realized he was standing on the difference. The lake, when it had been opened out, had made a gap in the cliff face as well, carving a channel from there to the river below. But now it appeared that the wall of the cliff below was repaired. How could that be? Unless…

He sent his senses down, recognizing that a cavern must exist there. And though Nenya was not a stone of earth, It was still allied with the elements. He could feel the shudder of the earth. _Legolas?_ he directed his heart, reaching to his son now that he knew he was near. Still there was silence. But the pounding in his chest strengthened, and even without an answer he knew the younger elf was there.

"Come, my friends," he cried out, gazing back at the others. "I know where they hide."

xxxxxxx

Legolas felt his head eased down, his body lowered onto the stone tablet. Dank cold surrounded him, and even in his dim state he knew he was kept in a cavern, the claustrophobic sense of heaviness pervading his weakened sense of awareness. He did not like caves. He knew this.

And there were hands touching him, inappropriate, undressing him. He could not reason why this was, only knowing he did not like this either and that he was unmoved in all ways except to be angered by it. He swept his hand out, shoving the other away. He heard a grunt sound out at the thrust of his blow, echoing in the hollow space about him. But the other was there an instant later, returning to the task of undressing him.

"No," Legolas murmured, and it stopped, but his head was lifted and a flask was pressed to his lips again. Liquid was poured into his mouth. It burned and he gagged, coughing, spitting it out. "No!" he cried, pushing the hand that forced this on him away.

"It is necessary," a voice said. He thought it might be Gimli, but the resonance was not right, and as he opened his eyes he saw a shadow hover above him, an imposter donning the shape of his friend.

_Legolas?_ he heard. Only no voice spoke this. Instead the sense of the word came from his heart, and he recognized this as coming from the spirit of his father.

"Ada?" he answered, and he knew he said this both in voice and from his soul.

"No, none of that!" Gimli said. "Drink now! We have no more time."

"Father!" Legolas cried out, not trusting the Dwarf as he suddenly recalled the Eye from his previous wakening and the pervasive pain that came with It.

_I am coming!_ his father replied, and Legolas sensed the urgency in that answer.

"No! None of that!" And then he was struck across the face, and the pain of the blow stung enough to draw his attention to the figure before him. He was pulled up by the nape, fingers coiling into the hair at his scalp and he could feel the heat of breath against his cheek as the shadowy figure forced his head to turn. "Look there! Look there now and see if you do not believe me!" Legolas's eyes followed the line of the arm pointing to a corner of the cavern. He could see a lamp had been lit there. A light shone. And in the glow of that flame he saw a face in profile.

"Do you see him?" the dwarf whispered, and Legolas felt his own heart beating heavily in his chest. "He awaits you. You have come at last to this reunion."

Legolas felt tears come to his eyes, his fears and doubts annihilated in that single moment. He could find no voice.

"You do see him then?" Gimli continued, but he waited for no answer. "Good. Then there will be no more argument. You will drink so we may complete this." And Legolas nodded as the liquid was poured into him.

He ignored the burning sensation, the wretched taste as this went down. His eyes could not be turned from the face he saw on the other side of the cavern. He watched as the chest rose and fell, breath deeply taken as the light shone luminous upon him, ethereal. And Legolas wept in sheer joy as the liquid came to settle over his limbs, his body growing heavy. Yet he would not turn away from the face he beheld. Joyously he waited, for there was none other filling his sight than the sleeping visage of Faeldaer.

TBC


	72. Cracks in the Wall

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy-One: Cracks in the Wall_

"Hurry! Dig deep! He is in there!" Thranduil commanded, helping as the Ent tore away at the stone wall so carefully erected. He lifted one of the stones pushed aside by Mithtaur in his excavation, tossing it over the ridge to fall to the river flow below. The pitch, though not steep, was yet a drop of many dozen yards. Even a short fall into such could kill. He watched as the rock bounced and chipped away on others strewn on the river shore beneath them and thought what a bloody token it would be should a man fall the same path.

"This is Dwarfcraft, my lord! The wall is too staunchly built to break through," one of his men crowed as he too hurled a rock over the ledge to join the one Thranduil had tossed.

But Thranduil negated him, trying his best to believe in the best of Gimli. He could not accept that the dwarf had fallen fully to the dark menace of the Ring. Gimli was stronger than that. He had love for Legolas. The deep sway of the Ring could not penetrate. "Nay, there must be a way through. Gimli would not seal them off completely. Dwarf or not, he has light in him," he railed. _Yet you betrayed your son as well. Can you say you loved him any less?_ his thoughts countered themselves.

The men did not comment and Thranduil suspected they had their own dark thoughts. Old suspicions and prejudices were hard to displace. Thranduil knew they would not desert those feelings on his assurances alone, especially when the evidence of the dwarf's betrayal stood so clearly before them.

The rock wall was newly placed. He could see that now that they were before it. From the distance it had seemed molded by the ages, a sweep created out of erosion, wind and sun. It had not appeared so freshly hewn, the bright cuts in the stone seemingly made only by the recent cuts from the released lake torrent. But here now before it he could see the rocks were newly positioned, the mortar between the stones freshly collected dirt. It was art, really, for there seemed few joints, and for every stone that they levered out there seemed a wall of even thicker rock set behind it. This was Dwarfcraft, and Thranduil doubted little that the power of the Dwarf Ring had contributed entirely to the obstacle set before them. Still, it was hastily made, for Thranduil knew with more time true craftsmanship would have made it so no cracks appeared. This wall had flaws, and he took encouragement in that.

_Gimli wants none of this,_ he assured himself. Thranduil knew the power of Passion was in building and hoarding, not in dark art and so, with the wall before them or not, he felt sure that if Gimli could draw his spirit forth he could overcome the Ring's will. He had more faith in the dwarf for his own battles with the Ring. Mentally he sent a prayer to the dwarf, willing him strength so as to overrule the miasma the Ring no doubt cast about him.

The elf tossed another stone, being careful as he did to guard against his momentum pushing him over the ledge. It was precarious work they did, but not so dangerous as it might have been. Thranduil saw the path had been cleared and he suspected Gimli had played a part in making this road clearer and widened as well. Intentionally done, it made it possible for all six of them plus the Ent to walk firm ground. Had it not been here, they would have had to skitter over rough rock and slope, adding feeble balance into the measures they took to clear the way. And Mithtaur would not have been able to help for the way would have been too narrow for his wide body.

It was still a narrow pass as Ent routes go, but it was wide enough for three men to easily pass, and they allowed the tree lord to have first rites while they remained in his wake, clearing the debris as he created it. Yet the wall before them was solid, or nearly so, and had Thranduil no knowledge of this place before, he might not have noticed the strange juxtaposition of the eroded rock to the hard wall before them, so natural did it look. But he knew it had not been like this before. The fissure had been opened, the torn lake had made a clean path. Now that path was gone, dammed off by the rock so carefully laid like a fortress to protect the dwarf and elf hidden within.

"There are no chinks in this stone work," another of his men lamented.

But Thranduil would not be deterred in this. He refused to believe their task futile. "Dig down," he commanded, though it was really the Ent he was ordering, for none else could get close enough.

But even Mithtaur cried out in his frustration. "I can tear through stone in due time, but this rock is not easily crushed."

"Keep at it. He is in there. We must reach him. Time runs short," he urged knowing somehow that this was true. Despite his assurances to himself, he could not forget that Mithtaur had been thrown aside by the dwarf and his Ring, and that there was evil in that intent. He could tell himself the Dwarf Ring wanted nothing more than base lusts for riches, but Sauron's presence indeed made the situation grimmer. Surely the Ring knew of their presence and It would be working Sauron's will to fulfill darker plans. Thranduil drew back then, fearful and frustrated and hoping that the Dwarf could win out against evil. Such a thing might not happen without intervention. He must help if he could. But how could they get through when the way was so deftly blocked?

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, drawing on his inner strength for fortitude, for knowledge. Bringing a hand to his heart, he stretched out his senses, trying to discern what might be happening beyond his own sight. Nenya, now a fixed gem on his hand, sang out, and he could feel it speak to the earth's elements. Like dye blossoming out when dropped in a pool of water, he felt it spreading, lacing with fluid motion over ground, air, water. And he sensed then the blockade it came to in the dark reaches on the other side of this wall.

He could sense Legolas, but more he could feel the manipulation of earth and stone. There was digging going on within, stone being moved. He thought then he could feel his son's awareness slowly returning and pressed his hand more firmly to his heart, sending assurances and courage to fight, even if Legolas was not yet wakeful enough to notice them. But he was assured. _The ritual has not been done yet_, Thranduil thought. At the same time, he felt the water in the cave tremble, and he knew It perceived him.

Opening his eyes then, he knew they had little time more. And somehow in that instant his eyes traveled up and there he saw his answer. "There! There, Mithtaur!" he proclaimed, wasting time not to speculate or conjecture. He saw the weakness. "At the top," he pointed out. "The rock looks less placed above. Pull the stone from there."

Mithtaur looked up then to where Thranduil pointed and his voice rose in a pleased gasp proving he had not noticed the gaps in the stone there either. The Ent rose to his highest stance and so that he might grasp. Mithtaur had taken injury in his previous fall into the lakebed, and he had but one working arm. It was far higher than his reach though, but he was able to grab a handful of rock in that stretch, not quite taking a broad swipe, but enough that some of the lesser stone above tumbled down. It was enough for Thranduil to see the weakening of the wall like a chimney collapsing at the pitch.

"I cannot reach the top," the Ent said.

"But I can," Thranduil assured. He then pushed past the Ent and came before the wall himself. "Lift me," he demanded for he knew what must be done. Mithtaur blinked once, as if registering this new direction, and then conceding, he reached down with his huge branchlike arm and circled fingers around Thranduil's waist.

And as Mithtaur stretched, Thranduil scrabbled to get a foothold, climbing the next couple of yards beyond so as to reach the top of the wall. The peak of the crest was loose with lightly placed rock, and Thranduil was certain there was nothing between the chinks mortaring the pieces together. And here at the top the rocks were more jagged, not so ordered, and even in climbing, Thranduil felt them begin to scatter and topple. It was just as he hoped, and it assured him once more that Gimli was playing a part in helping them. Sauron would not have been so sloppy in ruling the Ring.

He found footholds on two of the larger stones of the wall and reached up with his hands to pull more rocks down. They let loose without barely any effort, and in but a few minutes he had dug through them and was able to push away some of the more firmly placed rocks from behind. They scattered and tumbled in a loud crash, and a minute later he had breached the fortress, making a hole as large as his head. He had also cut the height of the wall by several feet, and he was at nearly the same point as Mithtaur's initial reach.

"Here," Thranduil urged. "Tear from here."

And the Ent stretched his fingers and was able to curl them into the hole Thranduil made and tear more away. A cloud of dust rose and the cascade descended into void creating a cacophony that reverberated in the dark din. He knew then that their entrance would not be a clandestine affair. Then again, he never really believed they would get in unnoticed. But with this break, their actions were known. The clock was now ticking.

And the hole had opened considerably. Thranduil could now look in and see the back side of the flume that had been carved by the raging waters. The opening was almost two feet around and looking in, Thranduil could see dull light where the tunnel opened out.

Pulling his head out of the gap, he turned back to Mithtaur and his men and said, "Keep at it. Tear this wall open quickly. Legolas is within, but I think we will not free him through just this crack. More. Make it bigger." And then without explaining himself, he pushed his feet into the breach and maneuvered into the opening. He knew they would follow as soon as the way was made wide enough to walk a man through. He was taking a chance leaping into the fore before them, but they would not be far behind. And then he disappeared into the darkness to find his son.

xxxxxxx

There were voices tangled, speaking together, speaking separately, each with his own message, each understanding and yet seeming unaware of the others. It was confusion, madness. And Legolas could not make sense of anything, uncertain even if the words were actually spoken or just the whispers of his fevered mind.

He remembered that his eyes had been made to look at the breathing figure of Faeldaer laying upon a plinth not more than a few yards away, and any fight in him had faded then, his doubts growing thick. He recognized that the hand was pressing into him, and with it went his will. But he found himself realizing without words that if he sacrificed his will Faeldaer would be awakened. He swallowed what was put to him without thinking. _"Drink so we may complete this,"_ he remembered someone saying, and it was almost as if the fluid melted into him, his choking awareness of it gone dim.

"_The waters. They should be mixed. This potion is too strong."_

_There is no more of the Draught. He has been fed all there is. It must be done now! They come!_

_Time is of the essence! This must be hurried!_

Words again, but he could not be certain they were truly said.

"_I will not be made a part of this!"_

And then shooting pain besieged Legolas and he heard his own scream. His left leg, the one that had been injured so many times before, felt as if it was being cut into two. A lance, a fierce pike, was jamming into the very core of the limb.

_There! You relinquish! Hear me now then: you have no choice! Your will is mine now, just as his is. Undress him. Ravage him. Unfetter his fae so I might climb into his skin._

"_He will fight this!"_

_He will yield to me. He knows nothing but the dream I lay before him._

And then they were gone and all went still. A moment. An hour. He could not tell. But it seemed all he had just seen and heard lost substance. They melted like an empty thought and he could not remember where he had been going in that tangle of strange words, pain, and visions.

"_Legolas, my beautiful one, fare you well? I think perhaps you have imbibed too greatly at the celebration."_

This last utterance did not seem to fit with the others and he found himself stirring to the words where he had been only a secondary witness to those before. Had he half a mind he would have thought the utterance spilled from the lips of Faeldaer. And then blinking he realized indeed that it _was_ his love who was leaning over him, stroking his hair back tenderly, eyes wide and concerned.

He started, gasping. It was not a dream then? "Have I been returned to Mírnen?" he asked, half-disbelieving the vision he saw before him.

Faeldaer chuckled, the sound rich, like musical chords being thrummed. "Returned from where? You have been where you always have been: with me here in Mírnen. And now you join me in my house, which is to be your house as well, for we were wed this day. Do you not recall? Aye, indeed, you have drunk too much! Was it that strange ale you brew in the dwarf's memory? I believe it is stronger than perhaps you give it credit for being."

"Wed this day? Can it be? Has no time passed since we have last been together?" Legolas asked. And in asking, he lifted his head and shoulders, propping himself up on his elbows while his eyes traveled about. He saw that it was true, they yet remained in Faeldaer's apartment, and he was still bedecked, as was Faeldaer, in his matrimonial garb. The light was blazing boldly through the copper screen of leaves Faeldaer had wrought, just as it had been before, and distantly Legolas could hear the party yet advancing in the glade beyond this room.

"Well, I had allowed you a short nap," Faeldaer explained, frowning now as if with worry. "You complained of your old wound and how it pained you. I thought only that you dozed. Now it concerns me greatly. Are you sure you are well?"

"Have we… did we… consummate-?" Legolas began, confused horribly by the huge gap that seemed to appear while he had been lost in sleep. Time had passed, but then again it seemed it had not passed. Yet as he pondered it, it seemed that all the rest – the horror of being told all of Mírnen had been but a dream, the anguish and pain of recovery, the strange behavior of his one true friend and the alien feeling of being lost and left behind – was without substance. It floated in his memory, real as the bed covering beneath his fingers, and yet fleeting like a mist in the morning light.

Faeldaer laughed shyly, but then his smile boldened. "Drunk or not, I think you would know if we had broken the fast on such passions! No my elf, not yet have we completed the act. I had delayed though I was sorely tempted to take you as you lay. You were wantonly desirable in your sleeping state. But I was kind, knowing we have forever. I cannot guarantee I will always be so considerate. Today though I wanted to be special and I thought you might do better with some rest. Now I'm certain of it, for I would wish you to remember such an event!"

Suddenly Legolas felt revived and relieved. It was over, it seemed! The ordeal had come to an end! He was returned to his treasure. He was forever with Faeldaer and he was so glad he had not come to truly doubt.

He reached up hands and pulled Faeldaer near as he whispered his demand. "Not a minute more will pass without my awareness of you, my sense of your very presence however far we are parted." And then he pulled Faeldaer to him and kissed him. The elf's mouth tasted of honey and spice and he savored the warm heat that it created in his body. His breath quickened and he could feel his lover's heart thumping against his chest, his heartbeat mirroring Legolas's own.

"Ai! But such dreams did I have!" he said as he reached a hand around the nape of his lover's head. "Months did it seem that I was kept away from you. I had struggled so, Faeldaer. I felt so much pain. And now I find none of it passed and in truth I have been here with you all along!"

"You have not left my sight," Faeldaer said in a gentle voice as he rolled to his side, his hand stroking lightly over Legolas's cheek and brow. "I could never let you go."

"Perhaps it was a lesson I needed to learn," Legolas speculated, drawing closer still, working his hands over the fabric that came between them. He began to undo the closings of Faeldaer's tunic. "You tell me nothing happens without reason, and perhaps this dream, wretched as it was for the misery I seemingly lived, was telling me that I am right in my resolve. I did not think I had doubts, but I was put to such tests."

Faeldaer leaned in close, nibbling at Legolas's ear. "And how did you fare?"

Legolas pulled open the shirting of Faeldaer's wedding attire, the elf's bare chest now before him. He ran his hands over the hard muscle. "I was true to my heart. I did not give up my beliefs. Your name was forever on my lips, and I strove to return to you, regardless of the impossibility such a mission was to fulfill. I love you, Faeldaer. I never stopped loving you."

They then kissed, and the warmth of mouths united, tongues twining, stirred excitement deep in Legolas's loins. He gazed into Faeldaer's eyes as they parted for air, and he smiled joyously, for their reunion was complete. He was home.

It was Faeldaer's hands that now ran over Legolas's body, and the other drove his lips into the juncture between head and neck, caressing the base of his throat with mere tongue and lips. Legolas sighed, surrendering to the touch. And yet the elder elf's hands quaked as he was touching Legolas, and something nagged at him that the scene was not right.

It was then that a small pang in his chest made him start, like he was being called by a presence, a voice from another room. He felt then in that moment as if he were being observed, watched outwardly, and he blinked, thinking for an instant that he was somewhere else. _In a cave? _Suddenly the pain in his leg made him lurch. Violently he found himself clutching at the limb.

"Too quick! Too much and too soon. Here, be still." And then Faeldaer was laying him back, lightly laying hand over his brow and he was not in any cave but laying on the bed in their shared room.

"Why does it plague me so?" Legolas asked, not easing back as his spouse suggested. He had a strong desire to shed his leggings so he might look upon the old wound. It felt dreadful and fresh, like a new knife had been carving away there, not the wound from years past. He tore at his lacings and tried to drag the cloth over his hips.

Faeldaer helped him, but he saw only the old scar made from the knife his father had driven into his leg those many years past.

"I had wanted to get you out of your breeches, it is true, but you look none the happy for it," Faeldaer mocked.

"There had been another wound here," Legolas said, remembering the horror of the cutting he had endured on the other side of his dream. None of it was here now, but it had seemed so real then…the hobbling he had suffered... the long hours of learning to reuse the limb… the horrible pain it had cost him just to take a few meager steps… and more. Weeks and weeks he had suffered! All that was gone in the sight before him. Yet the stinging pain of the wound was still with him. And worse, it felt to be digging deeper into his flesh.

He winced as he looked up at Faeldaer, hurt shining in his own eyes. And it seemed, with pain and awareness, that in that moment that he looked through Faeldaer, like one does a shadow, and he could see someone on the other side of that face, someone not Faeldaer. "Are you true?" he asked, shocked and suddenly frightened.

A touch. That was all it took, and the pain disappeared. The double vision was gone. Faeldaer brought hands to either side of Legolas's face, caressing it between tender fingers, and he said, "I do not doubt you, but it is thoughts that plague you, not the wound itself."

"Nay, not thoughts," Legolas said with a small shake of his head, his voice quavering with his fears. "The pain is real." And he knew his eyes were accusing, that in this moment he could not discern what was true, what was false. It was all written in the look the other elf returned to him.

"You doubt me," Faeldaer said.

It was no question and the elf waited for no reply. Instead Legolas found himself being kissed once again. The warmth of the elf's tongue, his touch, the long hands running along the base of his neck, over the flesh of his shoulders, down to his waist, were overwhelming. Touches. Touches and forgetfulness. And he breathed them in deeply. They were nourishing, tender, and he was made to wonder in the richness of them that he could ever doubt. There was passion behind the caresses, not the emptiness of unfulfilled desires, fantasies. This moment, this feeling was all he had wanted, and once more his body responded. He found himself sighing in uncontained pleasure.

"Do not doubt me," Faeldaer murmured and then he kissed him deeply once more. His lips passed along the base of Legolas's throat and his hands coaxed and massaged.

_Ai, but it feels good! _"Forgive me," he sighed, "I was visited once more by the shades of my past."

"No need for that now," the other elf intoned, barely removing himself from his work. "You will be mine and no pains or phantoms of doubt will haunt you again."

"Aye, that is what I want," Legolas concurred. And it was.

"You are happy to be awakened and back in my arms," Faeldaer stated, and he looked then into Legolas, searching deeply, and Legolas simply nodded. And then Faeldaer's hands were upon him more, and there were whispers. "You like this. You want this." Already Legolas could feel the bonds of what was to come wrapping magic about him.

"I could not want more," he said, smiling, unmarred joy coming to his throat. Yes, this was what he wanted. He shunned the previous doubts, marveling that he could let them come between them and letting his excitement and happiness wash over him. He felt his heart growing fuller, his chest constricting as his yearning to unite in spirit was near as great as his desire to enfold Faeldaer bodily into his own.

"Now! We must fulfill the final passage of our bonding now! I will not forsake you again, and this alone is what need be done to keep us together. Bond with me. Bond with me now!" Faeldaer proclaimed and Legolas demurred, feeling ensorcelled by the fierce expression of the other, the power in those very words. His breath came quick and Legolas heard the sharpness of his inhales matching the racing rhythm of his heart. He felt such desire, unmatched by anything he had ever felt before.

Faeldaer smiled beatifically, and Legolas was dazzled by the radiance that lit up his face. "Divest yourself fully so that I might claim you mine. Now. Here."

And with this, the auburn-haired elf dipped his chin and grazed his lips across Legolas's chest, nuzzling and caressing the buds of his nipples with kisses and a warm tongue. At the same time, his fingers deftly moved over what remained of Legolas's clothing, his robes, leaning him back to lounge on the bed while exposing his chest and torso to hands that roamed over his body, taking him.

**TBC**

**A/N:** Thank you as always for the wonderful reviews in the last chapter! (And also, as always, keep them coming! *-smile-*) It is lovely to hear from you and I appreciate all your encouragement. I know this story has been long and slow in coming, but it has progressed over the years because you have remained with me and kept pushing me on. And now it will soon be coming to an end. I guess that is sort of a heads up, getting you prepared. I promise I'll have resolved all the conflicts before I'm done, but I wanted you to know we are nearly done with this fiction. It's here on my little laptop, and slowly but surely I peck away at it, drawing out the conclusion.

I want to put out a quick shout to JastaElf here as well... Doll, where have you been? All my emails to you bounce! Please, please, please send me a review with your proper address so I can write back and we can catch up!


	73. SelfSacrifice, Part I

**Author's Note: **I really set out to write one chapter, but it got so terribly long that I decided to cut it in two. A gift to my faithful readers, I'm releasing them both at once. I hope you will enjoy!

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy-Two: Self-Sacrifice, Part I_

Long ago, before Sauron had appeared in the guise of Annatar, Dwarves had delved in the hills beneath Mírnen, mining those caves, spurred by the ambitions of their king beneath Caradhras. Wealth was their goal, but only minor minerals were found in the tunnels beneath Fangorn. After a few years of effort the Dwarves had moved on, deserting this place and seeking greater riches elsewhere.

Gimli read this when they had entered the caverns. Runes carved into those walls spoke it openly. Dwarves were neat in this practice, staking claim indelibly even if they gave up that claim further on in their writings. Visitors to his own home in the Lonely Mountain could find similar markings on the walls in all the various passageways of those spaces. Discoveries, mineral claims, wills, mechanical innovations, announcement of ownership to that fact, even family histories … all of these were written into the stone of the walls. For Dwarves, paper was flimsy and ephemeral, something to use in quick notes and journals. It was a tool of Men. Of Elves. 'The Delicate Peoples', some Dwarves referred to them. But stone could be eternal, more fitting for a race that deemed itself the hardier folk. And here in this cave, the rights and history of his people were proclaimed; it was done here in this very first hall. Gimli was able to read it all as the Ring struck flint and lit torches to light up the space.

Yet Gimli was removed from the motivations of the Ring, and he had to do his learning with the part of his will and mind that the Ring did not touch. His body was separate from him somehow and he felt as if his mind floated above him, feeling everything physically but not having connection to it. He remembered playing a game to the likes when he had been a child; he and his friends would take turns being blindfolded and then led about by the others, made to move in ways they would not do of their own will. Invariably when they were allowed to see again, they would find themselves holding, touching, donning things that made them look ridiculous. It was all in jest and fun, no harm in it. The Ring seemed to wield power over his limbs now, but he found no joy to it. Time and again he would come back to himself, as if having a blindfold removed to realize he was in yet another situation he had not willed. Try as he did, he could not reclaim use of his body.

The Ring set about to clear the debris strewn through this first cavern room. This was a Dwarven tendency, clearly embedded in the qualities of the gem. Fastidiously tidy in the spaces they carved, Dwarves did not tolerate mess for long, and the spilled stone and evidence of the deluge created by the lake's release were targets of the Ring's work.

It was careful as It worked though, dragging the insensate Legolas to the cleanest space in the room and then leaving him there so It might go about Its work. Legolas seemed to sleep deeply, and Gimli remembered his friend had been made to drink the last of the Ent Draught, the water skin emptied when the Ring had pressed it into Legolas's hand.

He wondered how long his friend would remain unconscious though. Hopeless as the thought was, Gimli considered perhaps if Legolas could see him in the control of the Ring's maneuvering he would realize what was happening and fight back against Sauron's will. But that was a futile hope he knew, for the strength of _Vaenduzk_ somehow was magnified here, and all It need do was touch Legolas to alter his perceptions. The drink worked to lull him, and with the Ring's wooing Legolas had been complacent, as bendable as Gimli was now.

Further, as he thought on it, Gimli was certain that Legolas had never really come back to himself when he had started his recovery in the Golden Wood. He didn't think he could ever fully understand, but somehow the visions in Legolas's dreams had been real to the elf. A world that was better than this one had been made for him there. Knowing some of the miseries Legolas had suffered in his life, Gimli could understand why Legolas would prefer that place. Yet there had been no place for him in that world, and Gimli was hurt that Legolas was willing to forego him for the sake of something not real. In his mind he screamed for Legolas to wake and recognize what was truly happening to him, to them.

The Ring was meticulous in clearing the stones, doing so one at a time. At first Gimli did not understand Its method, for the wall being built with this debris at the cave entrance was tedious. Yet he saw soon that the slow build was not for the sake of creating a staunch barrier, it was for what remained within the cave.

As the hall was cleared, he started to see figures revealed in places untouched by the fallen rock. They startled him at first, but then he remembered that this had become the resting place of those who had fled the assault Sauron's army had launched on them when they had tried to claim the Elven Ring that eventually had come to Galadriel. The bodies lay about the perimeter of the space, and they were intact, whole, beautiful. If he could have found voice then, he would have gasped at the discovery, for those who were laid there were Elves.

They were dead, there was no doubt in that, but they were intact and perfect, untouched by time with no signs of decomposition about them. _Vaenduzk_ stopped to ponder them when they were made visible to the eye and Gimli in turn was allowed to look upon them then. They were nestled together, a communal embrace, eyes shut in the peaceful slumber of death. He was moved by them, for their faces told a story just as the writing on the walls did. Frozen by time, they showed both misery and surrender, and he suspected their deaths had come from the lack of air. He remembered they had been trapped in this cave by the barrage of stoning Sauron's minions had launched on them so long ago.

Among them, lying in a corner of the room, Gimli saw bones and cloth and a decomposed body. It was foreign amongst the intact and ethereal bodies of the elves, but he recognized it too. This was the body of a Dwarf. _Narvi. _Yet the dwarf body had not been preserved like that of the elves. It was a skeleton, flesh completely gone as time had eaten away the body.

He remembered his initial awe when he and Legolas had first realized Narvi's body might rest within this cave, and he had wanted to pay homage to him then. That seemed a lifetime ago. Now under the mastery of _Vaenduzk_, the Ring seemed to honor more the Elven bodies laid at rest here than the Dwarf. The delicacy of debris being removed seemed to be most concentrated when the Ring worked around the Elves. One slip showed him why, for the Ring worked haplessly near one Elf body.

It was that of a female within the huddle. She was dark-haired and fair, and just looking at her he could tell how ill-prepared she had been prepared for the attack upon them. Her hands had dirt beneath her nails and her hair was pulled back, as if she had been digging in a garden mere hours before her death. Her hand reached out toward a male elf, his eyes also closed, lips slightly parted, and he wore a leather apron. Gimli could yet see burns on his hand and arms as if he worked a forge and these were the marks of his labor. But it was her gesture that allowed Gimli to imagine their last moments, her struggle to touch that male, her husband perhaps, before the last of the air could be gasped. She failed, for they were separate at death, her fingers mere inches from his, never quite touching. He could even see what appeared to be the trail of tears yet on her cheeks.

And it was the futile reach that made him see why the Ring was careful for she was spaced further away from the others, enough that she was not a part of the bodily cluster. It felt like she was vulnerable in that, and he saw a moment later that she was.

As the Ring removed a stone nearby, a fragment fell away, skittering across the floor and bumping into her body. Only it seemed there was no body. Quickly turning to watch, he saw her physical self disappear into what seemed a collapse of dust. And then a pool of air stirred this ashy pile, and a spiral of color arose, like smoke lifting from a fire, and with a quick whiff, that too was gone. The remains of her body were gone. Any sign that the lovely and sad elf had been there on the cave floor had disappeared in an instant.

Gimli somehow remembered stories he had been told about the substance of elves, how they were buried quickly upon their deaths, for they did not dissolve into bone and sinew like other bodies in nature. Almost it seemed they were spirit alone, their bodies small component of the earth itself. Had Gimli time to consider it then, he could have found great meaning in that.

But the Ring was focused on Its activities, and It turned away from where the female elf had been and went about Its task. It seemed unconcerned for her, looking it seemed for another.

Only moments later the Ring found what It had been searching for. Nearby, yet not among the clustered bodies, another elf lay. He was a male, handsome of face with fine chiseled features and hair a coppery gold. His body was laid in a more composed way, hands resting clasped across his chest, his eyes closed, and his expression sad but resolute. His clothes were worn, like he had been living in the wilderness in them for a time before coming to this cave. But he was carefully groomed too, his hair combed, his boots brushed clean, his jacket pulled flat. And this marked him as different, as if he had come to this place of his own and death was planned. Further his body was not laid in a tangle of limbs, death seeming no surprise. Instead he was composed and perfect, his body lying as if he had chosen to be there, to sleep, only never coming to rise again. Gimli came to realize then that this must be Faeldaer, for he recalled the stories of how Faeldaer had broken open the vault too late, and had surrendered his spirit to death, dying as elves can do from a broken heart.

It was around this body that the Ring was most careful and it seemed determined to preserve the perfection maintained in it. Once the nearest stones were gently removed, the Ring drew away.

Throughout though, Gimli did what he could to slow the Ring's movements. He had no power over his body, but he found voice from time to time and was able to say, "You do not want this." Once he even felt the Ring tremble, as if his words stirred It.

The Ring tossed his head away, going back to the job of building up the wall, but Gimli thought perhaps he had touched something of the Ring's own desires, for the wall seemed less stable in those last few yards. As the light of day was completely blotted out in the final turn of rocks, Gimli tried to sense the Ring's intentions, but as before there was nothing he could glean from It. His thoughts and the Ring's seemed two different things.

"Are we to be separate then?" he managed to ask, knowing again that there had been a time when he had ruled the Ring and been master over It. "Can we not find a way to work in union?"

It did not respond, but he thought perhaps It was paying attention, for It stopped when the wall was complete, as if ruminating on what Its next actions might be before moving to the entrance of the deeper caves. This had been ignored in Its earlier work even though Gimli had seen the path where the river had seeped into those caverns. Here too stone had blocked the way, but there were crevices where the water passed. And now he stood poised before that path.

It seemed the Ring was not so concerned with opening up the mine. It focused instead on digging just before that route, carving down, creating a trough in the stone floor and again placing those stones at the outer entrance to the cave. The bowl It carved was not deep, just a foot or so below floor level, but a plinth was built out from it, jutting into the hollow. It was an altar. He saw too that the platform was not far from the resting place of Faeldaer, just a few yards distance.

And then when all was done, the Ring raised Gimli's hand and used Gimli's voice to speak, though the words were not his. _"Come forth, Master. Your bed is made ready."_

The water came as a trickle at first, like the dripping murmur one would find in the depths of a sedimentary cave. But it quickly drew strength and began to spill into the basin he had made, pouring from fissures and cracks. At first the water seemed no different than any other water, spilling in with light tinkling noise and sloppy dribbles, but as the pool began to fill, it changed. It seemed to defy the laws of gravity, climbing the walls of the well and swirling in counterclockwise spin around the outer edges of it, like marbles in a bowl. To Gimli it seemed an expression almost of joy, as if the water was happy to be freed.

He knew then that this is what remained of Sauron_._ He was vastly diminished from the monster who had loomed above them when He had been the Master of the lake. Still, Gimli knew not to underestimate this enemy, for He had control over the Ring, and thus control over Gimli. And too over Legolas. Theirs was definitely the lesser of the powers here.

As if recognizing the dwarf's thoughts, the water swirled once more, coalescing and gathering into a figure. Human and yet not, the shape rose in the center of the bowl, looming taller than that of a Man. Its features were long and distorted, like a Man's only stretched, made ugly. It pointed to the body of Faeldaer, the substance of it real and yet almost ethereal. Gimli had no idea what the gesture meant, but the Ring seemed to understand, as if a clear command had been given It though not to Gimli.

Crossing the cave, _Vaenduzk_ made him reach for one of the torches It had struck when they had first entered the cavern. The Ring had him place the light at the floor, just below the ledge on which Faeldaer's body rested. And then he very carefully stepped back, compelled to kneel on the plinth _Vaenduzk_ had carved to jut over the bowl of the pool.

Sauron hovered over him then and he felt suddenly small. _Is this it?_ he wondered. _Am I to be sacrificed here? _

But no such thing happened. Instead he was made to look upon Faeldaer and he saw that the way the light was placed made the elf look radiant, alive. The flicker of the firelight stirred, creating an inner light that made it look like the Elf's chest rose and fell in breaths. If he focused, he could almost see the translucency of the elf, but the illusion was there for eyes undiscerning, and if he were to see without knowing the trickery, Gimli would think Faeldaer alive, breathing, merely sleeping.

But then the water shuddered and the Ring jolted. Instantly Gimli heard it too. Sound rumbled through the rock, and he knew then that others had come. Never would Gimli be able to discern it so well on his own, but even if It had been shut off from him, something of the Ring's magnifying senses were his too, and he could feel the nearness of horses hooves and others moving about above ground.

Urgency seemed to overtake the motivations of the Ring and Its Master then, and Gimli found himself overwhelmed by them, nearly losing himself in their controlling influence. Vaguely he remembered fashioning a small bowl – a cup really - and placing it at the edge of the platform. The watery figure of Sauron touched His hand to it and immediately it was filled with the essence of Him. The Ring then compelled Gimli to go to the sleeping Legolas and reached for the waterskin flasks that had held the Ent Draught. Even in Gimli's dimmed state he could feel the emptiness of the vessels. Still, he was made to open them and drip what few drops remained into the stone bowl.

If he spoke in both voices, he wasn't aware. Still, voices rang out, reverberating around him. _"The waters, Master. They should be mixed. This potion… he will not linger in sleep as he did."_

"_I can still speak into his mind. We have no choice otherwise. It must be done."_

And then he was made to go to Legolas and to drag him those last few yards across the room so he was laid upon the altar facing out toward the illuminated body of Faeldaer. The figure of Sauron settled into that of water once more, and it was then that Gimli's vision truly grew dim.

In recollection though he found to his repulsion that he had been made to undress Legolas, removing his cloak, his outer coat and moving to the lighter tunics layered beneath.

Still, even in this lessening, Gimli fought to maintain something of himself. In his mind he drew up images of what would come after, of Sauron casting aside the Ring once He had convincingly stolen power from others. He reminded _Vaenduzk_ that he felt it was Thranduil that drew near and that the elf-king bore Nenya, a Ring more to the nature of those people, to Elven bodies. Gimli had no doubt Sauron, in Legolas's body, would wrest the Ring of Adamant from Thranduil, having no further need of the Dwarf Ring. He could feel the shiver of indignation, of jealousy, that _Vaenduzk_ could not hide. But the Ring seemed to deny this as well. _"It is not true,"_ Vaenduzk spoke. _"The Master will keep me."_

The Ring continued in its work then, making Legolas ready for the sacrifice Sauron demanded. Gimli found his fingers ran down Legolas's chest.

Waking slightly at this, Gimli outwardly watched as Legolas stirred. And then in a fit of delirium, the Elf struck out, reflex moving him. Inwardly, dimly, Gimli cheered his friend's actions.

Yet Sauron had control and slipped Gimli's arm beneath Legolas's head, casting a spell with just that touch. Lifting the other hand, Gimli found himself pouring that was Sauron's essence into Legolas's mouth.

"No," Legolas gasped, coughing, pushing him away.

_Yes, fight Him,_ he thought.

"_It is necessary," Vaenduzk_ said.

Legolas then opened his eyes, searching, gaining some semblance of cognizance.

He lifted his hand and rested it at the center of his chest, pressing as if the sensation pained him. "Ada?" he whispered.

But the Ring pressed into his flesh deeper, and Gimli could feel _Vaenduzk_'s jealousy, recognizing elf powers It could not hinder. Legolas's eyes fluttered, dimming slightly. The voice spoke again, _"No, none of that! Drink now. We have no more time."_

"Father!" Legolas lashed out, finding will where Gimli had none.

Still pushing Its will into him, the Ring nodded toward the lit figure of Faeldaer and Gimli heard It say, _"Look there if you do not believe me."_ Following, the elf obeyed him in this. _"Do you see him? He awaits you. You have come at last to this reunion."_

_No! No, do not believe him! _Gimli cried in his own mind, but Legolas gasped, and the fight in him seemed to fall away. The deception… it worked… Legolas believed the sight of Faeldaer real!

_No, it is not true! Turn away! Fight! _he urged. Still the Ring reacted to none of this, and he saw his own hand lifted the bowl to Legolas's lips. _"You will drink so we may complete this." _

And then Legolas's eyes dilated, his pupils growing large. He gasped as his hands went to his throat, wincing as if in pain. He gagged, but Gimli was made to press his hand into the elf's brow, pinning him down. The moment seemed to stretch on, but eventually Legolas grew weak, his hand falling away, his body going limp. His head rolled to one side, and Gimli saw that he looked at the ghostly elf laid near, at Faeldaer. And further, he seemed to follow invisible movements where Gimli saw nothing.

Gimli thought then that perhaps there was no helping them, that their situation indeed was dire. He remembered again his thoughts as he had been forced to clear the entrance to the cave. He had thought then that neither he nor Legolas was too great that they could not be sacrificed to end Sauron's goals. _Vaenduzk_ had not seemed to hear his thoughts then, but now he could feel It trying to piece the idea together. It had been listening to his thoughts then after all.

_Very well then_, thought Gimli. _Perhaps the Ring needs to see._ He then drew upon memories of the Fellowship, of what it had been like to be immersed in the throes of battle, of tender mercies and concerns they had all shared. In all, he focused on the very heart of their mission, to see to Frodo's success in destroying Evil. He dwelled in his mind on how little he had devoted to himself in the Quest, how each member of the Fellowship knew that they were there as safeguards to the forces that would try to stop the One Ring from being destroyed. They had all pledged their lives to that cause and there were few instances he could recall that were done for self-serving purposes. The betterment of all mankind stood far above any of them alone.

"_This is not real though,"_ the Ring said. _"Where is your gain? Give me a better example."_ He remembered then their time when they had been passing through Moria. The tunnels under the mountains had been more than Gimli could have imagined, and he was surprised to find that tales told had not come close to describing truly the immensity and vast wealth of the place. Although battle and strife had set the caves into disorder, beauty was still evident and Gimli had been awed. It would have been simple to choose then to give up the Quest and to make claim to this ancestral home. And more, time and time again the Fellowship would pass rooms and vaults steeped in gold, silver, mithril, and precious gems. There was wealth so great there that whole cities could have been built with it and enough left that all its denizens would be rich as well. And Gimli, in making this claim, easily could have been king to them all.

Gimli could feel the _Vaenduzk_'s excitement in this recollection. Yet he had not taken even one gold coin from that place, and he knew this thought mustered repulsion and scorn from the Ring. Still he pressed on in his memory.

It was Legolas who had pointed out what he had passed on. Legolas - but only when they were safely away in Lothlorien. Their friendship truly was founded there, and Legolas, in a private moment of their wandering the elven realm, had asked, "Does It speak to you? Here? Do you hear It in these lands?"

Gimli had not had to ask what Legolas was speaking of. He knew. They all knew. He gazed up at his long-limbed friend and measured the reason for this query. In the days since they had taken up these travels, not once had Legolas said anything of their journey, satisfaction being found in learning of the dwarf's life before their Quest. It had been a welcome respite, these daydreams of Gimli's past mixed with songs from Legolas's woodland home and discoveries new to both of them. But he studied Legolas's face and saw something that worried him. "Not here," he answered truthfully though he knew this was not the reply Legolas wished.

"In Moria, though, certainly," Legolas prompted, his voice encouraging, and Gimli could see he longed for a confession.

But Gimli did not want to play this game. "Not that I would admit," he replied, turning away so he might take sudden interest in the stones they tread upon. Surely Legolas knew being in the presence of the One Ring was a trial. Why did he wish to speak of it?

"It spoke to me there too," Legolas admitted, ignoring the dwarf's answer and coming to the conclusion he wanted without Gimli.

Yet it was one thing to say Legolas had been tempted by the Ring as they traveled the open lands, it was entirely another to say he had felt It when they had been miles underground. This piqued the dwarf's curiosity. He looked up at his friend, trying to discern if there was something more to this elf than he had originally thought possible. "You? What would It have to say to you in places of the deep?" Gimli asked.

"It told me of the wealth to be had if I should just reach out and claim It," the elf replied, not seeming to apologize in that.

"And you were tempted by that?" Gimli wondered aloud.

Legolas cocked a brow at him and smirked. "Do you think riches hold sway over me?"

And Gimli nodded, understanding. Legolas was the Prince of Mirkwood, son of the infamous King Thranduil. This much he had wheedled out of him. And tales of the elf king's hoarded wealth were known amongst his people though Legolas seemed to be nothing like what he imagined Thranduil to be. "Then why might you hear It?"

"I hear It always. Even here," Legolas admitted, and this time he was the one to look away, bending long knees and climbing atop a near rock as if he might be safer if he stood imperiously above.

"Is that why you ask me?" Gimli asked. "You wish to know if I have been tempted by It?"

Legolas would not look at him, instead gazing off into the forest. He seemed agitated somehow, like the question stirred ire in him. "It is in a Dwarf's nature to hoard wealth," Legolas pointed out wryly. "Moria was everything I believed you might aspire to."

"Not all Dwarves! Not me!" Gimli growled, then defensively added, "Do not believe everything you have been told of my people!" And Gimli thought, _This is it. This is where these days of peace end. He has been setting me up so as to draw an argument between us. He will say I am the one who broke the truce._

Yet Legolas looked suddenly sad, and he immediately dropped low on the rock, coming to squat so his eyes were no higher than Gimli's. Strangely balanced on that precarious perch, he seemed vulnerable and lost as he met Gimli's eyes. "But how did you repel It?" Legolas asked, his voice small. He looked afraid. Suddenly Gimli saw that the elf had brought the topic up for his own need, that he was haunted by the Ring, that he was nearer to succumbing to It than Gimli ever would have supposed.

He sighed and pressed a hand to Legolas's shoulder and said, "Any time It speaks to me, I remember my friends. In Moria I only need look at you and the others to realize my services were better served with you. We were lost in a dark place. Though Moria was as foreign to me as it was to you, I knew I would be hurting all if I deserted you there. You needed my assurances then that we would come out of the place whole, even if none truly spoke that need."

"You could have left us."

"But I did not."

"You were selfless," Legolas observed.

"As are you," Gimli returned. "You are with us still, Legolas, though Lord Elrond bade you and I to leave whenever we might choose."

"Whenever we might choose…" Legolas drawled, and it seemed he almost spoke to himself. His eyes again looked off into the distance.

"You would leave? Now? But how could you? They need us," Gimli urged. "Frodo. Aragorn."

"Yet how can I go on when I…I doubt myself?" Legolas asked, brow furrowing in despair. "It makes me long for all Its promises. It tells me that I could rebuild the ravaged lands that we travel. My forest. My home. Even my fa-" He broke off there, not completing the thought. But Gimli already knew what he would say. "With a wave of my hand, all ill could be healed," Legolas finished. "I could do good."

"Lies! Lies, all of these. And you know it. And I see now my mission is greater than just to pledge to the Fellowship. It now needs to be for you as well, Legolas," Gimli said.

"I do not ask it of you," Legolas shook his head.

"And yet I offer it. I will remain to remind you that the Ring's promises are falsehoods. I will stand by you, assuring you of your good," Gimli said, pressing a hand into Legolas's arm, the gesture brotherly and compassionate. "You will see. Together we will resist It."

But it had taken more than that to truly assuage Legolas's doubts, their time together in Lothlorien dedicated to renewing the elf's resolve. In the end, Gimli was able to bolster Legolas's certainty, and through the remainder of their Quest, while in the company of the Ring, Legolas had given of himself selflessly, shaking off any promises whispered in his mind by confessing them to Gimli. Together they had held to their mission.

But the Dwarf Ring seemed disappointed in Gimli's remembrance of this tale, wanting more than just selfless sacrifice. It's desires were darker. _"This is nothing still. Pretty talk, that is all. I give you one more chance to prove yourself,"_ It said to Gimli. "_Show me you are true in your resolve. You say you are nothing compared to the world about you, that the elf here is nothing compared to the world about you. I give you this opportunity now to prove it." _And then It released Its bind on his hands, allowing him access to his limbs. He was able then, per Vaenduzk's desires, to reach for a rock that lay near his reclined friend. "_Kill him so the Master will not have him_," the Ring intoned.

Gimli found the stone in his hand then, _Vaenduzk_ having reached for it. He weighed it, knowing he had just this one opportunity to make everything right. But it was such a shock to be given this leave. Kill Legolas? He had put it in his mind that as a last resort he must do this. But was he there? Were they at the end? Could he do it now? The Ring pushed him ahead of himself, and now it seemed he had little choice. Sauron certainly would take control of the Ring once He realized what was going on. The way was his now. Kill Legolas. This was the right thing to do.

He raised his hand, but he quailed at the finality of this action. His hand shook as he hesitated. Giving up his own life was something he had surrendered to long ago. Every warrior knew he might never return to his home and family when he set off on a greater mission. But to end the life of a friend…? Legolas was helpless and unknowing in his part in this. Was it fair to do this when he was unaware of his own fate? _No, no_, Gimli assured himself. _Death would be a mercy. Legolas would want this._

And then he realized the other possibility in the moment. Perhaps the Ring did not recognize that It was giving him the opportunity to destroy not Legolas… but It.

Surprised, he drew back. Destroy the Ring? He looked down upon his own hand. It was pressing into the floor on the other side of Legolas's head and he saw the Ring sparkling, even in the dim light. It seemed to be challenging him to see his task through, testing him. Of course, he must destroy It! But was this a test? Was It measuring him to see if he had it in him to come to this conclusion? Or did It truly believe he could act in killing his friend?

His hand came up again, and he looked once more at Legolas, eyes half-lidded, skin pale. Sickness made him appear frail and small. Golden hair fanned out around his head, and his eyes traveled in some vision of his own as he whispered words that made no sense to the dwarf, conversations heard only in his head. Sauron's doing. Thralldom. The Dark Master worked his foul potion to woo his friend's mind. There was no choice in this. Gimli must free him. And in that moment his decision was made.

Yet in the next instant the world rocked and spun. The Ring took command again, and the rock in Gimli's hand struck his own head, his own strength driving it into his brow. The moment was lost to him then, and Gimli fell back. The Ring must have changed Its mind. Or perhaps It had thought him too slow to act. Or It perceived that he would betray It and strike It instead.

It was then truly that Gimli despaired. Had he missed his opportunity to end this all. Destroy Legolas or the Ring, the way had been there. But he had hesitated. He had failed. And now they would both be destroyed by It and by Sauron and all they had worked toward would have been for naught.

TBC


	74. SelfSacrifice, Part II

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy-Three: Self-Sacrifice, Part II_

In all his life, Legolas could not remember a feeling so great as this. Faeldaer's hands roamed freely over his body, and Legolas sighed, surprised by the complete abandon he felt at being touched so. For so many years he had hated the feeling of flesh pressed to him, remembrance of that night in his father's room always stirred when hands were laid upon him. But here, now, he did not shy away. He liked it. Nay, more; he loved it!

Faeldaer's mouth met his, and their tongues twined in a long kiss. Legolas devoured the other, pulling him close. He could not get enough, nuzzling and running his lips and tongue over anything that drew near him, and it seemed his body ruled him. He put no thought into his actions, instinct guiding him as his hands pressed into firm flesh. Every nuance was intoxicating, and Legolas felt his head spinning. There was no beginning, no end. All he knew was the touch of warm skin beneath his fingers and hard muscle as he brushed the flat of his palm over a taught belly. The smell of pine needles and smoky wood reached his nose as he pressed his face into the crook of his lover's neck.

He gasped then. Somehow his breeches had been loosened, and he felt Faeldaer's hand reaching into the heat of that space. _So good… so good…_ He could not hold back his moaned response. Oh how he wanted this, the words spilling from his lips to echo these thoughts. And he could feel his spirit climbing, Song filling his ears as he arched back, pressing into the hand stroking his heat.

But then suddenly Faeldaer looked up, looked out, not fixing eyes on Legolas, but outward elsewhere.

"What is it?" Legolas asked. "Why do you stop?"

"No! No! Ai! I will not do this! I cannot," Faeldaer suddenly said, and he drew back, climbing off him, crawling away.

Legolas reached out, taking the other's hands, thinking perhaps Faeldaer had grown frightened by his own physical longing. The path they followed was truly a deep commitment. Once they consummated their love, they would never be quite the same again. But Legolas was ready for it. He had not thought he'd need to convince Faeldaer, but he could understand that fear. They would laugh about it later, he was certain. For now he made light of this trepidation, "Your hands shake, my love. Surely you are not afraid of me."

But Faeldaer was not looking at him and Legolas sensed something was wrong, something bigger than mere hesitancy. Faeldaer's eyes were distant, like they looked out onto a scene not present between them. He would not look at Legolas as he drew further back.

"Touch me. Please touch me," Legolas then pleaded, rising on one elbow and reaching out the other hand to Faeldaer. He ran his hand over his own chest, keeping the heat alive, and his breath was still heavy, but his disappointment was mounting.

Still Faeldaer paid him no head, and his eyes wandered to his right and his left. He pulled his hands away from Legolas without comment, and Legolas was forced to ask as frustration, disappointment, even anger began to claim him, "Why do you flee me?"

And suddenly Faeldaer was back, hovering above him. "Touch yourself. I would watch you. This is what I wish. There is no reason for me to flee should you do this."

xxxxxx

Though his entrance to the cave was made known by the sounds of falling stone, Thranduil knew he must be stealthy once within. He knew not how precarious the situation was below, and he dared not create greater jeopardy by being too cavalier. As he took his first steps into the cave, he could see that lights flickered in the tunnels ahead, and he was drawn there.

Behind him he heard others of his party making the climb down, but he turned and waved them back. He knew he stepped into danger, but he had Nenya to protect him. His men had nothing, and they dared approach an enemy that could topple the walls around them on a whim. He would not risk their lives as well as his.

They stayed, but Thranduil knew they would dive into the fray if he called out. He must keep them away if he could.

The main chamber of the hold was actually a series of small hollows all opened out and it seemed to him it was not much unlike his own main hall, with stone columns lining the way, and a main aisle cut between them. It was not so large as his throne room, but it was spacious enough to hold many men in meeting, and he realized in its original days that this was likely the place where the dwarves would draw forth the spoils of their digging before hauling them out. Likely the runes on the wall said as much, but Thranduil did not waste time in exploring the space. He saw what he was here for.

He ignored too the bodies he saw huddled in the corners of the space, knowing with barely a glance that there was no life in them and that it had been gone for a long time.

Instead he stepped forward on light feet, drawn to the light at the end of the colonnade. Torches and lamps were lit, and the light settled upon a recessed altar that had been carved into the floor there.

He saw all then: Legolas upon the altar, sprawled, chest bared, breath flowing from him heavily; Gimli kneeled beside him, eyes unfixed, hands rolling over Legolas's chest; and the water figure that Thranduil well knew looming over them both, amorphous and pulsing, as if keeping pace with Legolas's breath.

Thranduil had kept to the shadows, but what might have been eyes on Sauron's figure glance up and found him in the dark. It was Gimli who spoke, though the dwarf seemed not to partake in the words himself. Thranduil saw a bloody gash across his brow, and his eyes looked dull, as if he sleepwalked and was unaware his actions and words. "I am glad you are here, Thranduil. You save me the task of hunting you down in the open lands once this is done."

Thranduil stepped forward then, reason for hiding in the shadows gone. "Did you think I would not come?" he asked boldly, knowing well it was Sauron he addressed.

Gimli's eyes went down to Legolas as his mouth cracked into a smile. He ran his hands over the elf's bare chest, fingers tracing down to the laces of his breeches, untying the stays. "Nay." The dwarf looked up as if assessing Thranduil's reaction. "I knew you would try to rescue your son."

The elf-king tried to hold back his fury over the blatant attempt to gain his ire. "Save us all the trouble then of the battle that will come, Sauron. Free him so we can part ways." His eyes went to his son. Legolas was laid to face away from him and all he could see was the crown of his head. But it was clear the young elf found pleasure in what was being done to him. His head arched back as his hands reached up to Gimli's chest and face. He surely did not recognize the dwarf. Thranduil found the scene repulsive, but he offered one more token in his bargaining. "I will let you be if you do this."

The dwarf laughed then, but it sounded nothing like the low chuckle he had come to know of Gimli. This laugh was throaty and mirthless. "Leaving me to what?" Sauron asked. "This small feifdom? I say nay to that as well. My patience has grown thin. I will not wait another millennium for a rescuer to come. I desire freedom and power now and I will not have them taken from me again."

Thranduil stepped closer. "Then I must warn you that this will be the last time you are given such a grant. I will see you utterly destroyed, Sauron. Do not doubt me."

The walls began to tremble then, and Thranduil could feel the threat brought about by the Dwarf Ring. Dust filtered down on him, and Sauron responded in threat, "It is you I think who doubts me. Not only will I have your son but I will take that Ring you carry about you." The rolling tremble ceased and Gimli's eyes narrowed as if trying to see the Elf Ring that would have been invisible to his eyes. "Nenya. Such a pretty thing. And you will give it freely," he said, looking squarely into Thranduil's eyes then.

"Never," Thranduil said with absolute certainty, and he took another step closer.

"We shall see," the dwarf voiced, looking down once more on Legolas. The elf whispered words below his breath and rocked his head side to side. Thranduil could not discern what was said, but it made no difference. Clearly Legolas was in a world quite different than that of Thranduil, or Gimli. "Once I have possession of your son's spirit and body, you will be powerless to deny me. You will give him anything he asks, and there are so many ways I could ask it of you." Again, the earth shuddered.

And the threat was there. The Dark Lord would not be so subtle as to simply ask. He would hurt others, those Thranduil ruled, those he loved, even Legolas himself. He did not think it beyond the Dark Lord to try mutilation and the dark arts to persuade Thranduil to do as he asked. "I will see Legolas dead first," he answered bravely, but he could feel his resolve weakening.

"Would you? I doubt that." Sauron laughed again as the water figure standing behind the dwarf leaned in closer. A ledge of stone suddenly dropped from the ceiling, landing just before Thranduil and blocking his steps. The dwarf dipped his chin as he continued. "Yourself? Yes, we have seen that you would sacrifice yourself for him. But to kill your son? No. Even Gimli could not do that, though I gave him his chance. Poor _Vaenduzk_ needed to learn that lesson. My Passion has come to learn that treachery comes before sacrifice. Neither you nor Gimli has it in you to kill Legolas. Not so long as you love him."

"My Lord Thranduil?" came the call from the entrance of the cave, and the elf knew his men would come to him.

"No! Stay back," he commanded. Their presence would be but one more distraction.

The rumbling continued and the torch light danced. Legolas sighed then, his back arching and head rolling to one side. Enough of his face was visible to Thranduil to see the undisguised pleasure dancing along Legolas's features.

Gimli pursed his lips as his hand slipped into the elf's breeches. "It is almost time. He is nearly there. And when he mounts that point of pleasure, when his faer is most vulnerable, I will sweep in and claim him. Do you not want to watch?" He lowered his head then, capitulating to Legolas's groping hands and nuzzled at the elf's throat, kissing him.

But Thranduil knew Sauron baited him. Instead of running forward, he jumped into the shadows. Thranduil dodged behind a column as rock thick as a crossbeam fell onto the space he had been standing just a moment before. "I will not allow this!" Thranduil exclaimed as crept back deeper into the shadows.

Gimli looked up then, eyes darting into the dark to find him. Thranduil ducked behind another stone pillar then, and it seemed the dwarf missed him. "You cannot stop me," he said, smiling, again trying to draw Thranduil forth.

Thranduil said nothing then, remaining hidden. "Want you," he heard Legolas murmur, and finally the dwarf relinquished into Legolas's arms once more.

But Thranduil was not about to let Sauron win this. Stepping lightly, he circled to the shadowed end of the room nearest the pool. Raising his hand, he wielded Nenya as he had that one time before. Through will, he pushed back on the watery figure. "Gimli, awake now! I need you!" he called, hoping the shove was enough to distract Sauron from his hold on the dwarf.

Sauron lurched back, not expecting him to come at him from the side. The watery figure rose taller, drawing away from the passion of the couple and seemed to look at Thranduil.

Thranduil stepped forward then, coming once more free of the shadows. His feet came to the edge of the pool, and he met Sauron's eyes at the same level.

If the water creature could roar it might have done so. But instead it opened out its arms, and in the next instant it charged, rushing straight into Thranduil.

xxxxxx

"GIMLI, AWAKE NOW!"

Gimli started. Had he been asleep?

And instantly he leapt back. He must have been! What was he doing? _Gods, no!_ he cried in his mind as he tried to distance himself from the scene he had been a participant of.

His lips were brushing over Legolas's throat, his hands pressing into the elf's flesh, breeches untied, reaching into the heat of that space, feeling hardened flesh there. And Legolas had been reaching to him, fumbling at his clothing, matching his actions. The elf was panting, his lips were parted, even with Gimli pulling back. "Want you," he heard Legolas moan, and in horror Gimli knew this to be words echoed from a moment before.

"No! No! Ai! I will not do this! I cannot," he shouted. And it was his own doing that allowed him to leap, to shout.

Though the light was dim, firelight from the torches bouncing off the walls, he could tell the Legolas's skin was pale, almost green in cast, wet with sweat and painted a sickly color. Yet the elf did not seem to recognize Gimli or to be repulsed by the seduction going on between them. He reached out, his long hands working over the dwarf's tunic, trying to slip hands beneath it, as if trying to undress him. "Ach! No!" Gimli managed to gasp, pushing him away.

Legolas smiled, his voice weak but seductive, seemingly oblivious to everything outwardly occurring. He laughed as he said, "Your hands shake, my love. Surely you are not afraid of me."

But Gimli's eyes were drawn away by the activity about him. The water in the pool was ripping savagely and his gaze found him staring at Thranduil on the other side of it, hands outstretched upward and out, as if to fend off the towering water creature that swept around him. Stones were falling from the ceiling, and his senses told him fissures were opening around them.

_Kill him!_ a voice proclaimed in Gimli's mind, words directed to him. But it was not the Ring speaking. The gem trembled on his finger, and it seemed to Gimli that the Ring chose to disobey this command.

"Stay back!" Thranduil was shouting to his men who were calling out to him. "Keep the way clear! The walls tremble and I will risk no others!" In stutter stops, dust and small stones fell from the ceiling, hints of the impending collapse that was to come. And more, Gimli could feel the ground beneath beginning to shift, tunnels from below opening and crumbling though the vibration had not reached them yet.

Gimli stretched out his own hand, knowing he had power to stop the destruction if _Vaenduzk_ would allow him. Yet his control was sloppy, muddled by damage done to the earth's foundation in the time he had been unaware and without this skill. It was big, the destruction that was to come. The cave would collapse, as would the hillside and all the land within hundreds of yards. All he could do was to hold it back in time enough that they might be freed.

Thranduil dodged a swipe of the water creature's arm, but as he moved, a wave caught him along his leg, and he cried out. He fell back, and the water struck him. The elf screamed as if in great pain.

"Touch me. Please touch me," Legolas beseeched, oblivious to the his father's pain, and Gimli looked down on him again. Wanton longing was in Legolas's expression, the glazed eyes, the heavy breathing of sex coming to peak. Legolas knew nothing of what was happening around him, and Gimli was repulsed by what Sauron commanded of his friend in his lost moments.

Suddenly free, he did not waste moments on considering his next move. "Legolas, awake!" he exclaimed, grabbing the elf by his shoulder and shaking him just as Sauron rounded on them.

"Why do you flee me?" Legolas asked, but he was not looking at Gimli. His eyes were lost in Sauron's vision and they were fixed on the water creature. Gimli looked in that same direction. The body of the monster was an abstraction, no longer even taking form that resembled human figure. Yet its convulsions and movements mimicked sex, as if it stroked itself in self-pleasure. Legolas moaned, falling back, touching himself in a lewd mirroring, and Gimli growled, trying to pull his hands away from his body. But Legolas was pleading as well. "Yes… but no, no, this is not how it should be. Please… the wait has been so long… our first joining… we should be together. Touch me."

The elf did not seem to see him, did not seem to recognize that Gimli did touch him only not in the way Sauron would demand of him. Gimli fought his own impulse to turn away and shook his friend instead. "No, Legolas, no! Look at me and see!"

He heard Sauron's voice whisper, like that of beckoning lover, the sound coming into his mind through the Ring still on his hand._ Release yourself to me… I have such desire to see you at utter abandon. We will have forever to couple otherwise. Do this… now… now, my love… _The water loomed over them both, daggers of water spikes threatening to crash upon them at Legolas's peak.

Legolas moaned again, and again Gimli shouted at him. "AWAKE NOW! Hear me! It is not Faeldaer who does this!" He then slapped Legolas. Hard.

The elf's head snapped to one side and he rolled, crying out. And then Gimli found himself struck across his chest by a wave of water, its power much greater than he would expect of a force with no true substance. And he understood the cries of Thranduil then. The water burned like fire. He hissed in pain but it was a short-lived hurt, stinging for that moment but not truly penetrating, and he rocked onto his feet, one hand outstretched for balance as the water seemed to dissipate as it soaked into his clothes.

And in that same moment, the main body of water leapt back, opposite to the threat of its looming, as if it too had been slapped.

Gimli looked up. Thranduil had somehow rushed forward and his hand was thrust out again. He reached one hand down, helping Legolas to rise just as he sent the water shattering into the shadows with the other hand, buffeting the walls in the dark.

Yet Sauron's voice shouted still to him. _Kill him, I command you!_

And with that Gimli let the Dwarf Ring see Its fate once more, tossed aside, made subservient to an Elf.

"Nay, I will not do this! This is not my will!" he answered Sauron in a voice that he knew was his own.

From the corner of his eye he saw Legolas break from his father's hold, stumbling to the corner of the cavern where Faeldaer's body yet remained, and Gimli discerned this a safe place. In his mind he could hear words coming from something greater, and he knew he must focus there, for this was still a danger. _You will obey me! _And the water in the pool began to swirl and stir as if angered.

And that was his moment. He knew it. The Ring had given him his freedom and he must act. It was the act of mercy that guided him. "You will not succeed you foul fiend," he shouted.

And then he raised his hand and bashed the Ring into the stone floor.

Immediately the walls rumbled, and Gimli heard Legolas cry out. "No! No! No!"

He could not look to his friend, wondering if he had made a mistake. Glancing down at the Ring, he saw that the stone had been chipped by his thrust, his fingers bleeding where the metal and stone gouged him. But it was still intact. Power yet was in It.

_Vaenduzk_ cried out then of Its own, possibly finding a change of spirit, Its willingness to let the dwarf take command reneged. Stone fell about him and he thought the Ring perhaps fought him. He was butted back so that his head bounced into the wall.

But the Ring's full will was not in this action, and Gimli sensed this a ruse, as if _Vaenduzk_ put on a pretense of fighting back. Weakened by the damage he had inflicted on it, the Ring still had power, and It allowed Gimli to rule It still. He let his senses reach out to the space, measuring the rock and its weight. _Self-sacrifice indeed_, he thought as he sent out his senses to feel the weakening fissures and cracks. And then he pulled on them with his will.

xxxxxxx

Legolas could not understand why Faeldaer had suddenly grown so coy. The elf had pulled away so suddenly when they had been in the throes of their lovemaking, abruptly changing to engender Legolas to make love alone. His disappointment could not be more obvious.

But Faeldaer saw his expression and remedied, "Oh, I intend to join you. I just find your pleasure a wanton joy to behold. Tell me you are not aroused when I too stir excitement in my own loins." And with that the lean and golden elf ran his hands over his chest and down to his groin, cupping and caressing his burgeoning flesh found there with deft hands. "You like the sight of this, do you not?"

And Legolas could not help the moan that tore from his throat, for even without touching himself he knew his breeches had grown tight, so enticing was the sight. "Touch me," he begged, wanting to feel the hands of the other running over his body to match the way demonstrated. "Please, touch me."

But Faeldaer leaned over him then, his breaths growing short as his head rolled back in ecstasy, and the sight was undoing Legolas. He found his throat tight with a moan as he heard Faeldaer cry out, beseeching him to join him."Now… now. Release yourself to me… I have such desire to see you at utter abandon. We will have forever to couple otherwise. Do this… now… now, my love… for me… do it for me."

And then a blinding slap struck him and his head was snapped to one side.

Gone.

He was not in the bed.

Faeldaer was not kneeling before him.

His belly was reeling and he felt horribly ill.

Gone. All gone. _Mírnen? Faeldaer?_

Suddenly he found himself in that dark cave once more. Voices around him were shouting and he could make no sense of it.

His eyes sought out Faeldaer, but the elf was lost to him somehow, the world dark, lit only by torchlight, Mírnen gone.

A hand reached under his arm, pulling him up. And as he gained his feet, he heard Faeldaer's voice raised in a snarl. _Kill him! I command you!_

Legolas did not know where the sound came from. When he looked up the world spun so that he felt his stomach reel, his belly lurching. And his leg stung in stabbing pain. He hissed as he stumbled away, bending double as he came to a lit corner of the dark space, remembering suddenly that this was the cave he had been brought to before, but not recalling why or how.

And then he saw Faeldaer once more, in recline, his chest rising and falling in breath. His face was cast in strange light, as if the volume of the hues had grown overly saturated, overly contrasting. It hurt his eyes and Legolas's head spun once more. He ducked his head, feeling a cold sweat on his brow, the contents of his gut erupting, as if rejecting what resided there. The pain in his leg bloomed. He cried out then, vomiting what felt like fire.

But his eyes remained fixed on Faeldaer, tears stinging them. Sickness or not, he was not going to be parted from the elf. Once more, time seemed to have reversed and altered, nothing being as he had it set in his mind. "Faeldaer!" he cried so as to rouse his love. But the elf did not move. "Faeldaer," he whispered as he stretched out his hand, crawling to the side of his beloved, paying no heed to what was going on around him though he knew there was danger and that the walls of this space were beginning to rumble. "Awake, my love!" But as his fingers brushed the cheek of the elf, the auburn haired elf with the golden eyes disappeared, his body disintegrating into a powder at his touch, and then floating, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings on the breath of air.

It was as if a waft of breeze carried him away, a light plume of smoke.

_Faeldaer!_

"No," Legolas gasped, not understanding what had happened. "No!" he then screamed, scrabbling before him, his eyes hunting, searching desperately. Where had he gone? "No!" he sobbed. It was the one word he could latch onto.

The walls were rumbling then. Rocks were cascading. He was in a cave, and it seemed to be collapsing inward. He was not safe here, yet he could not leave. _Faeldaer. Faeldaer… Gone._ Behind him there were voices shouting. Were they calling to him? He could not make sense of them.

He wanted to lay down there, to let the crushing stones take him. What was there to fight for? Faeldaer was no more!

But something compelled him to look back, to see what went on in the raging scene behind him. He turned his back to what had been Faeldaer and squinted into the darkness. He saw his father with arms outstretched, fingers curled into fists, as if he pushed back an invisible foe. At his side was another. Gimli. And his face was fierce. _His war face,_ Legolas thought.

And in that instant he came to see the deception, the falsity of what he had come to believe. He had believed it was real, that Faeldaer was his at last, but it was not to be. Somehow it had all been a dream. Crushed, he remembered all that had occurred before though he had never really believed any of it true except for the golden-eyed elf. Not understanding, he still could see that his father and Gimli were there for him, and he could feel his father's love. Somehow he sensed that they had come in rescue.

And Legolas could see then the foe they fought, lashing out from the shadows, light catching briefly on the figure like diamonds flashing. It was a formless being, without real shape, made of water, only not, and it seemed to spread and recede, writhing and moving like an undulating snake or eel, splintering and then coalescing, only to reform and spread. A leech. A formless fluke. It was hard to know where it began and ended, its body somewhere in the shadows, and tendrils reaching from there, pressed back by Thranduil's gestures. He felt evil in it as it dodged and wove and he could see his father dancing to its movements, as if each gesture was meant to capture a part of it.

Each stone that fell upon it sent up a spray that seemed to dance in the air, joining like balls of mercury and remolding into amorphous form, globules gathering, renewing into being again.

And then Legolas realized that in the shadows something lurked, winding its way beyond their vision. It was coming toward him. At his feet, Legolas saw long tendrils of water were running across the floor, rivulets pooling and sliding. He jumped to his feet as they took shape, disembodied hands crawling toward him. Reaching for him. He pressed back toward the wall as they crept upon him. The torch at his feet cast long shadows as they oozed and rolled forward. On his skin he could almost feel the ghosting of them, touching him, unwanted fingers plying him, the ache in his leg throbbing with each inch they moved forward.

And then the hands drew together, fingers dancing over each other, tangling, like a nest of spiders climbing one upon another, until they formed once more a mercurial blob. Drawing strength from the source of the shadows, a pool that seemed boundless in the darkness, a figure came to rise growing tall within this mass. It took but an instant and Legolas had not even a moment to dodge away. He knew his eyes widened, for he knew not what sorcery made this. His mouth opened in horror as the new shape rose.

"Father!" he called out. He was surrounded by it, could not escape it.

The body, was rising, rising, surrounding him, looming and hovering. He cried, raising his hand to shield himself. He looked up. With the light at his feet, he could see a face leering at him, smiling a demonic grin. Faeldaer. The water creature mimicked the appearance of his beloved for a moment. And then with a mouth opened wide as if to devour him, the water came toppling down and he was consumed by it.

TBC


	75. The Last Battle

**A/N: **Long, long, long overdue, I know. Apologies won't suffice. All I can say is that my life has been in the crapper and the muse has been AWOL. I won't go into details. I'll just say I'll try to get the next chapter up soon. Hang in there; we're almost done.

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy-Five: The Last Battle_

When Legolas screamed, Thranduil felt as if a bolt of lightning shot through his spine. The sound of the cry penetrated like ink on a blotter. It bounced off the walls, stippled and meshed with the heavy groan of the earth.

The elf king stumbled back, his hand glancing back to catch the wall before he fell, his balance thrown by the ground tremors. His head whipped around to see Legolas disappear into blackness. The flickering light surrounding the spot where his son had been standing suddenly vanquished at the same moment as his son's cry. For a brief instant Thranduil thought he had been swallowed into a hole.

But then he heard the sound of the toppling water and immediately he realized that Legolas had been attacked, Sauron's amorphous form sweeping in to claim him. In the shadows he saw movement, his son stumbling back, collapsing to the ground under the weight of the assault, and from there arching in pain. And Legolas's cry… his son keened as if he were being torn in two. The torment of it sheared Thranduil's heart.

Simultaneously he saw Gimli lurch back, a cry coming from him as a wall of water pressed him. The dwarf roared in pain, but he did not fall away, the force of Sauron seemingly more interested in keeping Gimli back than in actually assaulting him as It had Legolas. And Thranduil realized Sauron's intent was to keep Gimli from coming to Legolas's aid. In the dim, flickering light, Thranduil saw Gimli flail an arm, patting and brushing at it, the gesture like that of one trying to put out a fire.

But Thranduil could do no more for the dwarf that that for he too was presented with Sauron as an attacking force. It came at him with sweeping arms, Its body contained in the pool like some great leviathan. In that moment Thranduil thought that, as a monster, he fought at the dexterous front while Gimli fought the power of the tail, massive and brutal. Continuing that thought, Legolas was then being devoured.

He had to get to his son.

In fighting a foe, be it orc, troll, or creature of the deep, one had to find the weakest point if one was to strike and win battle. For Sauron, Thranduil recognized that juncture point was in this monster's form. Sauron had no solid body. He was soft, malleable, wholly able to move, his touch clinging and painful. But he was also completely dependent upon the bowl beneath Him to keep Him from falling away into nothing. Thranduil knew that is how they must get to Him, for that is how they had attacked Him before, tearing the lakebed out from under him. The only problem then had been that Sauron had found a way to create a new bed beneath him. He was smaller in size now, but it did not seem to matter for he still was able to strike. Futilely, Thranduil wondered if He would ever be completely destroyed. But he could not dwell on that now. He only knew that he had to stop Sauron from what he was doing at this very moment.

Yet as much as he desired to go to Legolas's side, Sauron's thrashing form came at him from all directions, keeping him where he was. Nenya blocked every thrust, parrying like a shield had been brought up, but counterattacks are rarely struck with the shield. He needed to strike the beast's underbelly.

"Gimli, it comes to you to win this!" Thranduil shouted, hoping the dwarf could see the strategy as well as he could. "Take command of the Ring!"

Across the space, the dwarf backed away, dodging the menace of the wall of water, one hand thrust out, the other tucked to his body. His face was a grimace, no indication given he had heard Thranduil, much less understood his meaning.

Thranduil thought then that all was lost. His son was being attacked and he was uncertain of Gimli's mind or loyalty. He had to act. Every instinct within him told him to rush to Legolas's side, to fight from there. But something greater kept him in place, refusing him the ability to move.

He felt his brow crease in consternation. His feet were unwilling to shift. He grit his teeth, growling in fury. What new menace was this? But in the next moment a sense of calm came over him.

_Thou must remain as thou art,_ a voice spoke in his mind. It was like a whisper, soft and tender, caressing like the touch of a woman. But he heard it boldly, overtaking all other sound. _Surrender thy strength. It will do thee no good against a foe such as this. Call upon what thou knowest to save them. Find thy heart, Thranduil._

And then suddenly a renewing sense of strength came over him, and the room seemed to grow bright, like the light of the sun shone from above. It felt almost as if a will that was more than him, coming from above, from within, from all around, guided him. And then he realized that what he felt was Nenya.

_Find thy heart and let it guide thee._ And Thranduil understood. He sought Legolas's soul, feeling the panic and terror that struck there. The water that had doused Legolas was now crawling over his son's skin like worms, snaking over his body, into his clothes, through his hair. And it burned like fire. Knowing this, knowing because he could feel his son's soul, Thranduil stretched out his arms and put all his energy into willing the water away. It was like sweeping loose feathers.

But the calm of Nenya seemed to take control. Thranduil surrendered to it, sending silent assurances to his son to be still. And then he could see the water in him mind, Sauron's repellent touch, drawing away, like water sucked up a straw. _This is thy heart. _And in his mind he answered, _Yes, _for the act matched Thranduil's thoughts. He would not leave his son behind. And that was a promise he meant to keep, even if Sauron succeeded. Thranduil would fight for Legolas even if it meant he himself perished. He would die for his son. It was then that Legolas's screams subsided.

But that did not mean all was still. Sauron's whipping arms swept at him, and blow after blow was countered with a wave of Thranduil's hand. Movement was constant, the light flaring with the shadow and glare of this dance. Yet Thranduil remained calm and still, appreciating the gift of the Ring. The cave was so very different when he looked at it through Nenya. He could see Sauron now, not as the watery serpent that had been attacking him, nor as the towering behemoth that had risen from the lake, but more as a dazzling figure made of fire, gold and red and smoldering blackness. He rose above Thranduil like a beast, massive and overwhelming.

Against his own instinct, Thranduil closed his eyes, allowing himself to be blind to the scene around him. And in that, he was better able to see and feel Sauron's menacing force. An abstract tangle of fiery tentacles, so contrary to the water they had thought to be fighting, reached out from the pool, writhing and whirling in a whiplash pattern. Sauron was at the middle of it, dark, menacing, glowering. His intention was to close them off and Thranduil saw that they were each separated.

He opened his eyes once more, gazing again at the dwarf. He could see too that Gimli fought to gain control, using what he could of his own Passion to create ripples that blocked Sauron's driving force, buffeting Him back. And to that Thranduil sent his thoughts, encouraging the dwarf on. Almost… almost he thought he felt Gimli answer him back. _Yes, I am here. I am trying!_

He mustered more courage, more strength, letting it pass between them as nothing more than a fleeting glance. But it seemed to work for he felt Passion truly answer, garnering power over the earth, gaining assurance with Nenya's presence, cool and blue and certain.

_Find thy heart and let that guide thee._

He could see then the work Gimli through his Passion. The light of the room grew greater, and he could see the tremors moving over the ground in green waves. Sauron staggered, but it seemed that the strength of Passion was only sparked. Opening his eyes wider, Thranduil could see the green passing over the walls of the cave, crawling over and above, crisscrossing like latticework, cracks and fissures being opened up. And Thranduil understood. Gimli was building his trap.

"Go to him!" Gimli called out, and Thranduil understood that he meant he should take Legolas away.

But he could not cross. Another whip of Sauron's malice struck at Thranduil. He took it in the chest. But with a wave of his hand the fire of that blow was gone, and he pushed back, sending Sauron closer to the dwarf.

"Now, Gimli, now!" he called out. And though they had not evoked a plan together, he knew Nenya was now reaching out to the Dwarf Ring and they spoke, sang, rose together to overpower the force of Darkness. There was unity between the Rings.

The green power that had crawled over the walls glowed even brighter, and Thranduil could see the interleaving pattern created a dome that crowned the space and the ground was a myriad cascade of fissures. With a word the ceiling would come down. With a word the floor would collapse. This was the strength of Passion.

Sauron seemed to grasp then what was intended. The tendrils of his form branched out then and they swept over the room as if reaching out to take multi-limbed handholds, to cling to the walls. But Thranduil could not let him win. Like his vow to save Legolas at the cost of his own life, he meant to see complete banishment of the Dark Lord.

His eyes were Nenya's eyes, and Nenya had power over water. Nenya saw Him. Nenya felt Him. And stretching his arms wide, Thranduil willed all of Sauron's presence to him, calling Him, dragging Him, taking command of Him. He could see Sauron's face molded into a mask of indifference, dead eyes, but he felt the fear that resonated in the soul of the Dark Lord. And then he stepped forward and he enfolded Sauron into a column before him. Sauron writhed, fighting him, and Thranduil stepped closer still, the tendrils pulled tighter to the form he had bound, but still they whipped at him. He gritted his teeth to the fiery pain, but he would not draw away. He would not let Sauron stay in the space, escaping in even small measure.

"Now, Gimli! Do it!" he cried.

The floor began to crack open at the lines Gimli had created with the Ring. The bed of the pool opened first. And then the stone that Legolas had been laid upon fell away. And then the rift drew wider. With a deep rumble and a sheering crack, Thranduil both felt and saw the expanse widen and deepen. The chasm grew, and he knew it dropped far into the dark earth.

He was at the precipice, his intention to push Sauron into the void. But something changed.

Whipping at him, an arm caught him in the face and his head snapped back as the fire burned in his eyes. Blinded by it, he stumbled, and he found his balance thrown. Suddenly Sauron washed over him, leapt upon him. He cried out, finding himself rolled in burning fire. And then he was lost, his weight falling back, and he knew in that instant that Sauron had turned on him and that he was the one falling.

But in the next instant he found himself lurching back, a hand snatching at his chest, bringing his feet under him. He was yanked back to stand by Gimli.

He gasped, meeting Gimli's eyes as they were pulled together. His hand touched the Dwarf's as they came to stand together, and he could feel the humanity in him as well as the strength of the Dwarf Ring. But Sauron, diminished somewhat in His attack, drew up from the wave of water that had fallen to the ground and leapt onto the dwarf. Gimli cried out as the acidy touch of the water burned him. Either in Passion's fury or loss of control took the moment then, and the floor opened wider.

Yet Thranduil saw his chance. With a wave of his hand he slapped away at the form that doused Gimli, and in that moment the wash of Sauron was swept into the darkness. It coalesced, came together in that instant, forming a body of flailing hands, falling away into the rift and dropping to bottomless depths.

Diving to Gimli's side, he whisked his hand again, the spray flung into the dark hole. There was nothing to grapple with, nothing for these small Sauron to hold to. He fell, and in Thranduil's mind he could see the Demon spilling, dissipating, spreading, separating, losing more and more of Himself as He was dashed down into the deeper and deeper emptiness that was opened for Him, the pit going on for ever and ever.

He was gone.

And yet the walls rumbled, and Thranduil felt as if he was released from some great spell.

Gimli grabbed at his hand, pulling himself up, but his eyes were wide. "It is going to collapse!" he shouted above the din.

"Can you stop it?" Thranduil asked.

"Before. But then he attacked me-!" Thranduil understood. His management of the stone had been lost in the surprise. The cave was collapsing and the control of that had gotten away from him.

"Get Legolas!" Gimli demanded. "I will try to slow it!"

Thranduil raced the breech to Legolas's side. His son's face was pinched with pain, but he was no longer writhing in anguish. Thranduil scooped Legolas into his arms and rose in one smooth movement.

"I have him! Come!" Thranduil shouted and he ran to the entrance of the cave. He was greeted by his men who took Legolas and lifted him into the receiving arms of Mithtaur, who was peering into the entrance.

The cave shook but he watched as his son was pulled away. _Safe… he is safe! _he thought. He then turned back to the dwarf. But Gimli was not behind him.

"Gimli!" he called. He raced back into the cave, finding the dwarf at the place where the cave opened out from the narrow hall. The fissure in the rock continued to open, and Gimli stood before it, watching it.

The Dwarf seemed transfixed. The Dwarf Ring was no longer on his finger but visible in the palm of his bloodied hand. Curling his fingers around the gem, Gimli said, "It will hold until you are safely away."

"Come!" Thranduil tugged at him. But the dwarf did not move.

"_Vaenduzk_ has chosen to end all here."

There was something in the way Gimli said this that made Thranduil stop. The walls continued to rumble, and he could hear his men calling behind him, but he turned the dwarf to face him and shook him.

"We are free! Let us be gone now!"

"The Ring will always be a menace if It is not destroyed."

"Now is not the time to discuss this! The cave-!"

Gimli's eyes went round, and he looked at Thranduil in earnest. "Do you not see? Sauron's spirit lives in this Ring too! It was Nenya that helped It realize Its power to overrule Him, but He yet remains in _Vaenduzk's_ making. It will get stronger if we free It from here and then It will not be so willing then to betray Sauron."

"Then do it now and be done. We must go!" Thranduil answered, but Gimli met his gaze and Thranduil suddenly understood. The dwarf meant to go with It. "No!" he then shouted, staring wide-eyed. He thrust out his hand in an attempt to fling the Ring from Gimli's hand.

But the dwarf was too fast. His hand tightened its grip, his arm swinging around. Rock began to fall within the inner walls of the cave as Gimli's brow furrowed. He looked at Thranduil with pleading eyes. "I cannot betray It! I did that once already, and there is little trust between us. It will follow me in this if I lead. Go, Thranduil, now! These walls will only stay firm so long as I am with It. I will bring them down once you are gone. Sauron will not crawl out of this void, I promise."

"No!" Thranduil shouted back as the ground beneath his feet began to rock. He dove forward, tackling the dwarf and rolling him to the ground. His hands scrabbled at Gimli's, trying to loosen his hold on the Ring. "If Passion is willing to see the good in Its own sacrifice let It realize that that means harming no others. It must let you go too, Gimli! I will not let you perish here for It!"

But Gimli fought back, kicking and struggling for freedom. "You know what It is, Thranduil! You know It does not act selflessly! Would you not do the same? This is a compromise I am willing to make. Legolas is free! You should be too!"

"As you should be!" Thranduil answered. But he winced as a stone the size of his fist cracked into the side of his head, falling from above.

Still, he did not relinquish. Bleeding and dizzy, he mustered his will. Nenya could not do this. It was his to fight. The Dwarf Ring would take him down too. It did not care if he lived or died. It was only Gimli that kept him safe still.

Finding strength yet untapped, he pressed Gimli further to the floor and found the will to pull his arms apart. His muscles quaked with the effort and Gimli roared as he fought against him. Yet Thranduil would not halt. "The Ring was made for good before Sauron tainted It. Sauron is gone from us now; let It remember Its purpose. If Passion understands goodness, if It understands sacrifice, let It understand that you need not go with It in this."

More rock was spilling and the cave was filling with dust. To his right, Thranduil could see his men standing in the archway, hands curled around the posts that held up the crossbracing as the floor began to buckle. Light behind them cast them in silhouetted shadow, but he could see their arms reaching for him. Their voices beseeched him though they were almost drowned out by the heaving noise of the earth.

He gazed back down at the dwarf beneath him, pinned. Gimli's arms were outstretched, one pressed to the ground, the other cantering over the open fissure. The ground trembled as, even in the dim light Thranduil could see, the other side of the gap began to disintegrate.

The dwarf looked to his hand dangling over the dark expanse. His fingers loosened slightly and Thranduil caught the glint of the jewel within the curved palm. Gimli did not look at the elf as he said, "It is afraid."

"But It knows this is right," Thranduil said in a voice that was softened, pleading. "Let It end as It began, on the side of good."

Gimli closed his eyes but his brow was intent. It seemed as if he spoke in his mind and then he opened his eyes once more.

"Let It go," Thranduil urged, and Gimli nodded.

Opening his hand, the Ring lay upon his palm. Thranduil could see the Dwarf design patterned to frame the amber jewel. It was elegant in Its gold setting, and It seemed to shine as if It were newly wrought and polished. Thranduil knew It had no further pull on him, but he was glad to see It blaze, as if It knew this moment was one in which to be proud.

And then Gimli angled his palm, turning it just a small degree and the Ring moved forward, rolling from him and falling.

The room immediately began to break apart, the walls shattering, the roar of the earth's quaking deafening.

Thranduil grabbed Gimli under the arm and pulled him, nearly tossing him, into the entranceway tunnel. The walls began pressing in, the rock cascading, sliding, as the floor gave way. He could see his men already above ground, reaching arms down to them. And around them the walls were narrowing in, crushing together like teeth gnashing.

He lifted the dwarf to them, and for himself he found what was left of the footholds in the wall. Climbing, climbing, he could not breath. His arms reached up but dust was in his eyes and he was blind to finding his people. The roar of the earth was like the bellow of a monster and he was deafened by it, unable to hear the calls of the men. He felt the stone crushing in at his sides, sliding along his body like a languishing tongue and he found himself being dragged down. Thranduil thought then he might be devoured, swallowed whole, pulled into the dark gullet, past the pressing rocks, only to be let loose and to fall, fall, sharing the same fate as Sauron and the Ring, crushed by a mountain of churning stone.

But then something else reached into the void, grappling for him before he slipped past the maw of the cave. He felt something huge wrap around his waist, hauling, pulling him. And suddenly he was free, fresh air filling his nose and his mouth. He could breath though his lungs spasmed with the dust still in them. He blinked, his eyes caked with dirt as tears ran down his face to clear them.

Mithtaur held him. "Away! Away! Away!" the Ent was shouting out, and Thranduil saw that he swept out his other hand and lifted Gimli and the remaining elves, hugging them to his broad chest. Leaping back, he dodged away as the side of the hill and the hole that Thranduil had been dragged from continued to collapse in. A rift opened outward, as if the chasm from within followed them, and the hill began to sink. The Ent ran as further and further the hole opened. The ground rumbled, and Thranduil was rattled violently as Mithtaur raced to outrun the devastation. He hung on for dear life.

And then they stopped. They had come to a place on the other side of the river. Thranduil's head ached, and he felt nauseated by the jostling. He scrambled and clawed, pounding on the Ent's fist as he exclaimed, "Release me now, Mithtaur." The Ent started and opened his fist, and Thranduil jumped to the ground. He looked first to make sure all were still with them and saw to his relief that all were near, including the horses. Including his son.

He turned his eyes back then to where they had been and saw that the entire side of the foothill had fallen in. Anything of the cave, of the cliff side, of the opened lake, had fallen into the hole. The land flattened there, and even the river was altered. The steps in the rock had shifted, dropping the current to swell toward the flattening land. Nature took command from there, and the water toppled over and around all land debris washing it away as a new path was cut by the water. And then the earth's rumbling stopped and everything grew quiet.

Thranduil tossed his head then, seeking Legolas. His son was safe and in the company of others. He cried out though, and Thranduil ran to him, hearing behind him Gimli's heavy tread.

"Why does he cry?" the dwarf asked.

"What is it?" Thranduil demanded of those who looked over his son. But his physician shook his head as if uncertain. Thranduil then dropped to his knees and he pulled Legolas to him. "My son?"

Gritting his teeth, his breath coming in short pants, Legolas looked at Thranduil. Sweat beaded on his brow. He arched back suddenly then, crying out.

"Legolas!" Thranduil clutched at him, desperate and uncertain. "Are you hurt? Where is the injury?"

Legolas's eyes were wide and his breath was rasping. "He is in me still! He is in me!"

"No, we have slain Him! He is gone!"

But Legolas curled his fingers about Thranduil's collar and weakly pulled himself up. "Nay, I feel Him! He-!" His face became a mask of pain.

Thranduil felt panicked. Would this horror never end? "How-? Where-?" he asked, uncertainly.

"A shard!" Gimli shouted as if he suddenly remembered. "There is a shard in his leg!"

"But they healed that wound!" Thranduil protested.

"Give me your knife," Legolas suddenly demanded. "He must be cut out." His hands shook. His body. He gulped on the air. "I can feel Him. Help me get Him out before it is too late!"

xxxxxx

There had been arms wrapped around him and then they dragged him away. Yet he was in intense pain. Though his father had somehow wicked the burning water from his skin and hair, he could feel the water still. It was sliding down his throat, behind his eyes, into the passages of his nose as he was carried away. It burned just as it did on his skin and somehow it seemed to revive the piercing in his leg, making the stabbing from within even worse than ever it had been. It felt as if there was a knife buried inside him and it was cutting its way out while the water wormed its way in.

He fell back into the arms of those who helped him. They heeded him little, lifting him, tossing him onto the back of a horse, mounting behind him. And then they were running, galloping quickly, spilling over water and to the green forest on the other side.

In the next moment he was upon the ground and his father was there, his dirt-caked face before him, eyes wide with fright.

He could no longer feel the worming effect of the water, but pain still tore through him. His eyes felt swollen and red, his nostrils scalded. But he screamed for the stabbing pain in his leg as it ripped him apart. That was where he felt it now.

"Why does he cry?" someone asked. _Gimli. It was Gimli who said this._

Words he could not follow were murmured about him. He looked up at his father, beseeching as he tried to reach into him, wishing he could crawl into the relief offered by those eyes filled with tender concern. "Give me your knife," he said. He began shaking uncontrollably and he looked down upon his quivering limbs. He knew where the pain was and how he must relieve it.

Then someone said, "It's his leg! Look!"

But this Legolas already knew. The old wound was roused again, and his gaze was already hard, fixed on the mass buried beneath his skin. His hands fell away from their hold on his father and he grappled at his leggings, tearing them so he could see what he already knew to be there. Once open, he dared not touch the wound for the horror of that wretched pain. It felt like fingers digging through his flesh in slow, deep agony.

"The gods protect us! What is that?" someone exclaimed.

A boil-like mound was centered around the scar tissue of new wound and old. He could see the flesh rising, purple and red and he instinctively knew the direction of the invading menace. He choked the top of his thigh, trying to cut off the route and its ensuing pain.

"Carve it out!" he cried. "He is still within me! He seeks my heart. The water… and now this! Cut Him out!"

They were gathered around him, his father at his side, Gimli at his head with the rest of his father's men hovering near. "Stand away! Stand away!" he could hear being ordered. His eyes looked out and he could see their faces, frightened and shaken. His eyes fixed on the blood on Gimli's hands, knuckles torn as the dwarf clutched about his shoulders. He noticed the dirt on his father's face and a smudge of blood at his brow. It seemed funny to Legolas that he noticed these small details. But still he felt they were near enough to make this moment feel claustrophobic, and Legolas shuddered at old fears, wishing they would be gone from him.

Hands were upon him trying to help, trying to hold him down, but as much as he wanted to be free the pain, he fought them as if something else possessed him.

"We must get whatever is in there out, Thranduil! He is right! It seeks out the main artery," the healer said, clamping down on Legolas's leg, pressing down so as to slow the circulation the same as Legolas.

And then Thranduil drew his dagger. But his face was grim and it seemed he hesitated. "I should not…"

"Do it!" Legolas pled and then he screamed as the pain grew even greater.

He could feel it writhing, like a snake. He saw the healer who held him firmly down flinch back, a gasp of shock. And he knew they all saw it as he felt it. The shard within him moved like a living thing. It was alive.

"Mahal!" Gimli uttered in his ear, wrapping arms tighter about Legolas in sudden fear.

Thranduil stared, his hand shaking.

Legolas noticed then that the blade his father held was hers, that of his mother. He thought, _Is this not ironic,_ as he reached both his hands to those of his father and in the same breath plunged the knife into the wound.

It was almost a relief. The knife cut into flesh and seared a sharp new hurt, but it was nothing like the worming movement had been.

Collectively there was a cry from those around him, and then panic as a gout of blood welled out of the wound. Hands frozen by the previous horror suddenly were mobilized and they were cutting strips from their cloaks and tying off the leg to keep him from bleeding out. Already a river of blood was pooling out the hole he had made.

But for as much as the others raced into action, to Legolas the scene slowed. In his ears he heard not their cries and panic but the thumping beat of his own heart, the raspy breaths of his own labored chest. Thranduil tore his hand away from the dagger and Legolas's own hands fell away in the doing. The hilt of the knife rose above the mound of his leg and the small part of the blade not embedded gleamed bright light. He knew then he was not done, and he made to grab for the blade yet again. His hand was covered in blood and he saw where his hand had skimmed the bone-white grip a smear of red had been left behind. Someone pulled his hand away, but his other hand reached to his father.

He curled his fingers into the front of Thranduil's cloak, pulling him down so he might hear. His father's eyes met his, and he saw the fear, the memory pervading, and he realized the horror his father felt. _He remembers that day too. It has not been just my nightmare. He shares it._ But he needed to break the spell for he knew not how much time was left him. Already the world was dimming in his vision.

"He must be washed away. Wash It out," he said, but his voice was weak and he was not sure he had been heard. Thranduil looked at him with confusion. He tried again, doing his best to speak louder, but even then the words were but a whisper. "The water… wash Him away."

His hand slipped, and his fingers released from the hold at his father's chest. Lightly they slid to the king's heart and rested there, a trail of blood marking his imprint. Thranduil reached to his hand, squeezing it, and then a light came to his eyes. He spoke, but not to Legolas. A command he gave, pointing to something beyond sight. The words were dim in Legolas's ears, but he could see the authority Thranduil drew, the mastery of his strength wielded in the power of his demand.

And then Thranduil gazed down on him, and light shone in him. Legolas did not know if it was his own weakening that did it or if his father truly did glow, but to his eyes the king blazed brightly. He realized a hand was pressing into his chest, that words were being spoken. He could hear none of them. The sound of his own heartbeat rattled loud in his head, but the world was fading, and he felt suddenly so tired. His eyes drifted closed, and it seemed that everything was growing still. Even the sound of his heart seemed to slow and quiet. But he felt calm somehow. He was unafraid. And a bright light came to swallow the whole of his chest, and he was consumed by a sense of peace.

TBC


	76. Hatchling

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
__Chapter Seventy-Six: Hatchling_

Legolas had been awake for a while, but he purposely chose not to open his eyes. He was fearful of what he would find if he did. So many times now he had come to arise only to find the world utterly altered, not as he had last left it. He did not think he could bear such an occurrence happening again. His heart was still aching from his most recent memory, that of waking in a cave, finding his father and Gimli attacked by Sauron's heinous form, sinuous and serpentine, being victim himself while learning in the briefest of instances how he had been deluded into believing in Faeldaer and Mírnen again. _Again!_ And ultimately, the worst pain of all: learning that Faeldaer truly was dead. Dead long years past, never once really knowing Legolas. Ever. That knowledge crushed him, making him hurt with desperate anguish, making it impossible for him to open his eyes, for if he did he would keen wildly, a dog howling to the wind.

And should he wake now to find reality painted as something different again he would truly believe himself mad. He could not live it.

Around him he heard the sounds of movement, voices, commotion. Yet he dared not try to discern the meanings of them. Soon enough they would unveil themselves to him anyway. They always did.

He would not open his eyes, but he could tell some of what was happening about him. He lay upon the hard ground. Cloaks and blankets were layered over top of him, and he felt weighed down by them though he was not really warm. He did not think he had energy enough to move them so as to draw more heat, nor did he think he had it in him to change position so as ease his own body, for he felt stiff, as if he had been lying in the same position for too long. Dimly he recalled fevered dreams and shivering, but it seemed so long ago that he could not even be sure that had been real.

He tried to settle into sleep once more. It was easier that way, and slowly he felt the pain in his heart start to ease as he relaxed his muscles and remained limply still. As he did though, memories started to mingle in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. Vaguely he recalled confusion and doubt in recent days, a fight made for his heart and soul waged.

His brow creased with recollection, and he knew then sleep would not come easily. The memory of fever and illness pressed down on him, though he could not remember any details of the bout that had plagued him. Vaguely he remembered only water being plied to him again and again, and then retching it up, again and again. Delirious moments of feeling lost were there too, his soul being consumed, words spilling from his lips that made no sense to him now, and again he was not sure if any of this was really true.

Still, he was aware of the world and he used his wakeful senses to push away from memories that were hazy and otherworldly. He detected the smell of smoke, the crackle of twigs and branches burning, telltale of a small cookfire blazing nearby. The air was chill, and he could taste snow on it. He could distinguish the sounds of eight or nine people in the general area, and that many again of horses, for he could smell their lingering scent and hear their heavy feet on the hard ground as they grazed a distance away.

But there was something else… a feeling that was less about sight or sound or and more about his heart.

And then he recognized a difference from this over previous awakenings. This one had come and gone in recent time, but it had been a clue as to which world he would wake to. Now he knew it was not Faeldaer he would find when he truly opened his eyes, for he understood his waking in Mírnen was not tied to this one thing. It was the Song that he heard. Or more precisely, it was the Song of the Sea – _cuivëar_ as his people termed it.

When he realized it was there he almost stopped breathing. At the same time, it was so familiar to him that at first he had not recognized it. But now that he did hear it he could not silence it from his mind, for that is where it resided. Endless, the sound rang in his head, the luring call of the sea, drawing upon his soul to answer and sing out his reply, to let it capture his heart. Somehow he knew that if he answered the call he would be changed, that already he was changed, that something of him was different now. But it would be worse even still if he sang his reply. If he answered the Sea, beautiful and melodious as it was, there was no other answer he could give but to surrender to it. To give over his heart. And he had already given it… to Faeldaer. Somehow that reminder twisted in his chest.

Still, the Song chimed around him and like the lull of sleep he felt moved by it. It was mesmerizing and alluring. So beautiful… And for that he felt fear, pulling back from it, for he knew too where giving in to the Song could lead him. He would be done. Vanquished. Surrendering everything of who he was to be a thrall to its demands. He would have to part, no longer even cognizant of what this world held. He knew what those claimed by the Sea-longing became. He did not want to be one of those, a sleepwalker, wholly claimed and driven single-mindedly by purpose to escape to distant shores. He wanted to keep who he was. And so he tried to push the Sea from his mind.

But pushing it away was almost a physical hurt, for if he did not give in there was the memory of lost love to return to. Either way he knew he could never wholly divorce himself from hurt and desire of one form or another.

His face must have told of the anguish he bore, for he knew he made no sound. Yet two sets of footsteps approached him in that moment and they kneeled beside him.

"He is waking. Legolas, can you hear me?" A firm hand pressed into his brow, calloused and warm, and Legolas thought he knew the voice though he dared not speak the name of its owner, even in his mind. His fear of being disappointed was great. "I think he is in pain. He needs another dose of that thing you do."

And indeed, Legolas recognized that he was in pain though he did not ache so much physically. It was his heart and his mind that were hurting.

The other spoke and this time Legolas did not doubt the owner of the voice; it was his father. "I imagine waking is overwhelming him. Let us be gentle about this, Gimli."

"I am being gentle! Legolas? Can you hear me?" Gimli asked, his voice low though still brusque as he leaned closer. The dwarf's voice was hardly soft, his touch not light enough to be called a caress, but Legolas imagined this was his way of being tender.

Legolas wanted to be amused by the gesture, but to do so would mean acknowledging his awareness of Gimli and his father, and he did not want to do that either. He wasn't ready to meet up with them again. He felt suddenly a flood of misery that he could not explain crushing him, bearing heavy weight on his chest, on his heart. Leaden. Unbending. He stayed still. But his breath stuttered in quavering inhales and exhales, giving him away.

"Do it, Thranduil. Do that thing you do. It seems to calm him," Gimli said, and Legolas felt utter humiliation that he was perceived as being so needy as to require his father's help. How many years had he gotten along with nothing required of him?

"In a moment. Give him a moment. I think he needs to know he is in a place that is safe, that he is with those who love him." And then directing his words down, Thranduil leaned in and said, "It will be well, Legolas. Nothing is expected of you. It has been horrible all you have had to endure, truly. You will not be harmed in that way ever again. Sauron is gone from you. Wake now or later, but know we will guard you."

Somehow those words had the opposite effect of soothing Legolas. His face twisted as his mouth opened, a sob escaping, again without his knowing it would come. And then arms were wrapped around him and he was pulled into a tight embrace. But he did not return the gesture. He hung limply, not wishing to respond, and he made no more sound.

Eventually he was lowered and Gimli spoke once more. This time his voice was soft with compassion. "I hope you wake soon, Legolas. We have adventures we promised to take, places we spoke of seeing together. I miss your companionship. You do not know what it is like being surrounded by all these elves. I need someone of a reasonable mind to balance them." And Legolas could imagine it - Gimli arguing with the elves who traveled in his father's contingent. They were mostly Silvans, he knew, but they were the fiercest loyalists among his father's guard, and they would hold to old prejudice even if his father was more yielding in his thinking. Even with eyes closed, Gimli and Thranduil seemed well-mannered enough around each other, even comradely, at least to Legolas's seeking mind. And then in a pointed dig, the dwarf added, "Your father is trying to be sensible like you, but he is too old I think and will not concede to the superiority of my people. Not like you do."

Legolas wanted to laugh at the gall of Gimli's words. The dwarf was egging him, trying to get a response. But instead he felt his breath jump in his throat like that of an unsounded sob and he could feel the misery of tears beginning to build. He imagined the dwarf frowning at his response but he could not help himself. All he felt was such deep hurt. And shame.

Legolas then felt a hand pressed to the center of his chest and sudden heat burn into him. With it came an overwhelming sense of calm. He felt a hollow emptiness take over, relaxing him, softening him. His ache eased and he released then that he did feel ill, a light ache at the base of his skull receding then, the heavy hurt in his chest subsiding. Bitterness tasted in his mouth melted into mellow sweetness. The uneasy feeling of being unclean seemed to wash away, and he felt himself drifting into the comfort of that touch. The Song of the Sea, still present and perhaps even perverting the rawness of his emotions, diminished then, and he could feel something he was sure was love, deep and affirming, layering over the yearning the Sea drew out.

Without really thinking hard on the meaning it would convey, Legolas reached up to his chest to assure that indeed a hand pressed there, for almost it felt as if the feeling came from within. His fingers brushed over the hand and came to settle there, signaling the knowledge that he was both touched and that he found it acceptable.

He found himself drifting then, and this time he gave in to the lulling feel of sleep haunting him, pulling him. But before he fell into this newfound fatigue, a thought entered his mind that he wished to ask of his father, for he knew it was Thranduil's hand that pressed into his chest. He was not sure if he actually spoke the words, but regardless the question was asked. _"Dare I trust you beyond this moment?"_

Aloud the answer came, and Legolas realized then that his query had been solely in his mind. Yet Thranduil heard him. Softly his father said, "I was a fool. I can only beg your forgiveness for the past. I am here now and I hope you will let me try to remedy all that I did wrong."

Legolas did not linger on the words, instead nestling into the comfort of the touch – one hand, unmoving, not trying to stir a bodily response, solely pressing healing into his body. It was a welcoming sensation and Legolas devoured it. He felt so starved.

xxxxxxx

Vaguely he felt himself being rolled and then rolled again into something of a more comfortable bed, and then there was something heavy draped over him, the chill that had pervaded his sleep finally seeming to flee.

But it was his sense of smell that truly woke him, and this time his eyes opened before he could consider doing otherwise.

He was laying on his side, still upon the ground though there seemed to be more padding beneath him than that provided by a mere bedroll. He noticed too that there was a light roof over his head, though to say it was anything more than an elegant tarp thrown up to keep the elements out would be an exaggeration. He was exposed to the open air but he was not cold as he had been before.

He noted that his hair had been combed back, that his skin felt freshly bathed, and his clothes were soft and unsoiled. There was something refreshing about waking to new bedding and a clean space that made him sigh in contentment.

With eyes open he could see, and what he saw was a confirmation of what his nose told him, that something delicious was cooking. Spitted and being turned was a rather handsome-looking hunk of meat – the carcass of a lamb or goat he guessed, still raw and pink, but beginning to glisten with meat juices drawn by the red coals beneath it. As it turned, each drip of fat created a hiss from the fire with a waft of smoking rising and sending trails of scent around the meager camp. The smell made his stomach growl, and with a little surprise Legolas realized he was hungry. He could not recall the last time he had felt such.

Remaining reclined and on his side, he was able to see everything around him. He saw that they were still in a region of Fangorn – the remains of Mírnen he guessed – though they were not in deep woods but instead in an open plain that ran near the river.

He saw the ground was covered with a light layer of snow, not thick enough to blanket the area but enough to make the world seem grey and damp. Clumps of green still poked through the white and he saw Arod and other horses gently nibbling and nuzzling at the dirt, pushing the snow aside to graze on the grass which seemed plentiful beneath. He noticed his horse's coat had thickened and was in need of a brushing. He saw too that Arod was growing heavy with inactivity and Legolas thought that he could do with more exercise. That was a funny detail, he thought, but it seemed to affirm the realness of the moment.

He saw too that there was a little sorrel pack horse in their company now, trailing Arod in his foraging. Arod's left ear shot up as the other crept near, and with a swing of his head and a flick of the tail, the other dropped his head and grubbed in the dirt behind him, not daring to intrude on the fresh greens the Rohan horse had uncovered. Details again, but they seemed safe, not ones that might break him.

Amused but still curious as to what else was about them, Legolas counted five, not including himself, that were part of this camp. There were no other tents erected, and there was just the one cook fire. He was surprised at such a small number for on his last wakening, though he had not truly opened his eyes, he had thought there were more voices than just these. But it only took a minute of listening now to puzzle out where the others had gone.

Gimli and one of Thranduil's guards were going through a dozen or so packs that were scattered on the ground, opening each and inspecting the goods within. With each Gimli exclaimed in delight at the finding, like he was opening presents at the dawn of the yule. "A wheel of cheese!"

"…the lord and lady say there is no need to repay them the use of this horse, the gifts of these foodstuffs. They were adamant that you should accept them and are only pleased to know the prince is recovering. They were most concerned for you as well and said you should return to the Golden Realm to winter rather than venturing on. They fear the weather will be harsh this year." This was said by an elf Legolas did not recognize and who was not dressed as one from Mirkwood. He was speaking to Thranduil, a horse behind him already saddled and clearly waiting his departure.

"Bread! Dare I believe this just made a day ago? Oh, we will feast tonight!" Gimli proclaimed.

"Tell them not to worry, that we would take them up on this offer if only we did not feel pressed to return to our own homelands. The messages you deliver from the Greenwood remind me that I have been remiss in my duties to my people. I agree that it will be a difficult winter and we have had war to deal with these last years. As has Lothlorien. Are you sure your people can spare these provisions?" Thranduil replied, running a hand over the flank of this messenger's horse.

"Onions, Thranduil. Look! And potatoes too!"

The elf smiled, his face handsome beneath his hood, though his breath billowed about his face as he spoke denoting the chill of the air. "Yours are but a few mouths and we would not deny you even if you were greater in number."

"Salt, dried fruit, and some waybread too. I have grown weary of the nuts and spent fruit we forage here. Aye, this pleases me greatly," Gimli announced though it seemed no one was paying him much mind.

"Ride then," Thranduil returned, "and send our thanks once more. We will put these goods to use. And tell the lady we will depart soon and that this water will help. I think the menace has been fully flushed, but this will assure it to be true."

"A skin of wine would really please me, but I guess that is asking too much. These are lean times after all," the dwarf murmured more to himself, seeming to realize that no one was responding to his comments.

"I hope your son is well enough to travel soon," said the Galadhrim elf. In one fluid movement he mounted his chestnut mare. "As I told you before, upon returning the horses to our stables safely, the others in your party were escorted to the borders of Greenwood. They are probably near to home by now."

"Ah, I see hooks here. I will most definitely put these to use to catch that fat fish that has been eyeing me from the deeper parts of the river," Gimli kept on his prattle.

"It pleases me to think my people safe," Thranduil said. "Safe travels to you as well. I will have a message sent once we reach our destination." And with that the messenger nodded and set off with a man of his own company, leaving their party to that of three, not including Legolas himself.

"We eat well tonight," the guard who had been unpacking with Gimli then said to Thranduil, coming to the side of his king. "And for many nights thereafter, though in a week's time provisions will again be lean."

Thranduil nodded. "It cannot be avoided, Daerion. I will not travel until my son is fit. We could take the offer to return to Lothlorien, but I do not think it will stir good memories for Legolas if we go there, and I think he is very near to waking now. But I will not hold you here if you wish to travel on, just as I did not hold the others."

"They only left because you commanded them," Daerion returned.

"Should I command you too?" Thranduil asked, then answered his own query. "Nay, I think not. We are handicapped by my son's illness and we need your protection if you would give it. And you have a healer's touch as well in tending his wounds. Still, I will not hold you if you choose to leave, my friend."

And in hearing this Legolas was surprised and pleased. His father was decidedly a kinder elf in this world. He spoke to his people as Legolas would. Never demand loyalty, he thought. Instead ask without expectation; and then most likely it will be given.

And indeed it was returned here. "I am yours until you choose that I am not," Daerion said in response.

But it was then that Legolas realized they were all there for him, kept in this place because he had been unwell and unable to be moved. It felt a burden to know he was responsible for their meager existence, enriched though it was by the gift of Galadriel and Celeborn. No one should have to be held a captive to his needs. He felt hugely embarrassed by this, certainly not worthy such attention, drawing upon his memory and feeling less than the worth of these others who were made to stay in order to protect him.

It was then that he realized there were still two more in their company he had not noticed before. It was almost as if they saw him before he them. Certainly he had seen them but he did not register their true presence, for these two were Ents. More precisely, he recognized that it was both Fangorn and Mithtaur that he saw. They were on the other side of the open ground, still and silent as they guarded the forest edge.

Fangorn was the one who moved first, opening his eyes and slowly turning so he looked squarely in the direction of Legolas. At first Legolas did not think he had garnered the forest lord's notice, but when Fangorn stretched out one long leg and then the other, Legolas realized he intended to cross the long field in seeking him. Mithtaur did not follow, though his eyes too opened, and he watched Fangorn's movements, curiosity, or perhaps dread, marking his pinched expression.

It was Fangorn's approach though that drew everyone's attention. And then they noticed the Ent's regard and that Legolas had awakened.

"Ha!" Gimli barked, hurrying to Legolas's side. "I knew you would arise today!"

"Daerion, the water skin if you will," Thranduil requested and the soldier went back to the unloaded packs and found the thing the elf king had asked for.

And Legolas pressed a hand into the ground, trying to push himself to rise. But he found himself surprisingly quite weak and he had to rely upon Gimli's supporting arm to sit up as the Ent came to stand before his open tent. He winced as pain shot through his left leg and he remembered again the wound he had inflicted upon himself there. It seemed to him then that had been a lifetime ago, cutting the splinter from his thigh, but the bandages were fresh and the wound still ached like it was still new. It seemed then though that he recalled the fever that had come shortly after his own wounding, but time was still haphazardly placed. How long it had been since then he could not even guess.

"You awaken now, young master prince, Legolas of the Greenwood, Greenleaf to all who do not speak with elven tongues and yet would put a name to you," Fangorn said in his long, slow Entish drawl. Legolas had forgotten the laborious measure of Fangorn's speech.

Legolas nodded, remembering that he had not seen Fangorn since visiting Isengard. He was humbled by that knowledge, feeling again that he was responsible for pulling the Ent from his other responsibilities. He wished now he had not infringed upon this forest's hospitality. So much damage had been done by his visit.

"I wake," he found himself saying. His voice was small and he sounded like he was barely there. "It seems much has happened since last we met." The words sounded trite, and he cringed. Clearly things had been altered, and it was his fault they had. Apologies seemed so meaningless, and Legolas was in no position to try to amend what had been damaged even if he did apologize. His guilt was great, and he could feel his face reddening under the Ent's intent gaze.

Gimli tutted like a nurse. "None of that now," he said as he propped Legolas up with more blankets and pillows. "Treebeard is well aware of everything that has happened here. No need to rehash it. We are just happy to see you on the mend. You wake, and that is what matters. Did you see? The Lothlorien elves have been here and they have sent us fresh provisions. Tonight we will feast."

"I feel so weak," Legolas answered.

The dwarf harrumphed. "We will work on that. A good meal or two and you will have your strength back."

"How long have I been ill, Gimli? I will confess I am hungry," Legolas admitted.

"Ah. You remind me of a newborn starling," Fangorn observed, and Legolas looked up at that. He was not sure he liked being compared to an infant bird.

"Days," Gimli answered. "It has been days, a trying bout you have suffered. But you wake now and seem yourself. We'll feed you and you will be much better."

But Legolas felt irritated and not so much himself. The Ent's comment felt as a jibe. "I am not so frail as that," he said.

The reply could have been to Gimli, but Fangorn saw it was directed to him. "Frail? Did I say use that word? Perhaps not, but I can see the perception. You are frail, Legolas of the woodland, or at least it would seem to one so large as an Ent. You will not always be, that I am sure. Yet at the moment you are. Indeed, in reply, I see that perhaps a starling is the wrong creature to compare you to. A jay then, feisty and fierce."

"I am not a bird," Legolas protested.

Fangorn's brow rose. "And still I think you take insult at my comparison, little elf, son of Thranduil, though I mean not to insult you. I am reminded merely of a bird, pecking away, hatching from its egg, emerging out into the world, startled and surprised by the newness surrounding him. Peck, peck, peck, you see. Peck, peck, peck, you have been chipping at your shell," the Ent said. "Does it feel good to be freed?"

It was an insult, Legolas was certain. "I have not been in a shell," he argued.

"Surely you have been. That is the tale I have been told. For are dreams not a shell in which to hide?" Fangorn asked.

"I have not been hiding," Legolas asserted finding his ire rising.

"Ah, but I know of dreams and dreaming, for that is the chief occupation of trees, to sleep and dream. Unfortunately in sleep we miss much and the world moves around us," Fangorn said.

Legolas was yet uncertain how great the slight to him was to be. He thought perhaps he deserved it if Fangorn meant to punish him with insults. Yet he was not the only one guilty of causing harm. "Is that why Mithtaur was granted opportunity to let evil flourish here?" The words came out of their own accord.

"Legolas," Thranduil said harshly, interrupting the discourse. Then as if to change the subject, he said, "Drink this," and he handed the waterskin to Legolas that his man had brought him.

Legolas shook his head, feeling suddenly petulant. "I have had enough to drink, do you not think?"

"Enough of Sauron's vile potion, I would venture, but never enough of this," Thranduil shook the flask and Legolas could hear the water sloshing within.

Legolas looked at it and then at his father. A wave of distrust made him falter and he wondered suddenly if he dared believe Thranduil's intent to be good. Was this not how he had gotten into the trouble of Mírnen? Drinking whatever was put before him, not really resisting? Who was to say this was not another attempt to rule him. "You drink it then," he countered deciding he wanted nothing to do with his father or the waterskin or Fangorn or any of them.

"You do not understand, Legolas," Gimli interceded. "It is Nimrodel water he offers you."

"And it was Entdraught that you offered me, was it not?" Legolas returned in challenge to the dwarf. Gimli cast down his eyes, his guilt immediately apparent, and Legolas knew he had dealt him a blow. The words just seemed to pour out of him. "Faeldaer would say it was wine. Why not just call it dragon piss for the good it will do me?"

Fangorn groaned deeply then, the sound resonating at the base of Legolas's spine. The Ent looked at Thranduil and said, "It seems he does not heal. His spirit is darkened. Lord-King-Hir-Thranduil, do you truly think there can be a cure?"

"Of all here, must I admonish you, Fangorn, to be patient?" Thranduil scolded, his ire rising with his voice. Protectively it seemed he almost extended his arms as if he were a wall between Legolas and the others. "There is nothing wrong with him that time cannot work out!"

It was clear then to Legolas that he was the subject of a preceding conversation and he liked it not one bit. That he was being chewed over now angered him all that much more. "You must know that I hear your words!"

But they seemed to ignore him in this, carrying on their own discourse. Fangorn lifted one brow at Thranduil's reproach. Yet in his slow, patient way he did not retaliate with a raised voice. Instead he shook his head and looked back over the plain to where Mithtaur stood. "Time. Time. I have waited many long years of time to see things correct themselves, but that does not always happen, Lord Thranduil. It is my own that I ask for. Greywood-Mithtaur has been victim to Sauron-the Betrayer-the Deceiver for far longer than any of you might reckon. I only wish to put things right. But I would not venture that time is the thing that would make it so."

"It is all we have," Thranduil returned succinctly, turning again to face Legolas. "That and the Nimrodel water that Galadriel has sent."

And though Legolas did not understand what was being said around him, he did recognize his father's earnest entreaty to him. The words were not said, but there was pleading in Thranduil's gesture as he extended the waterskin to Legolas. He knew then that his temper was not warranted.

His voice still weak, he asked, "I have been ill?" His brow creased as he tried to recall. "I remember the splinter in my thigh…" The searing pain resonated in his memory even now. And the moment with the knife, driving the blade into his thigh to cut off the agony of it, that too was in his mind. He reached down to tentatively touch the bandaged wound. He could feel it beneath the blanket of cloaks and wrappings.

"The shard was removed. You bled profusely, but we were able to sew up the wound. Yet even with the splinter gone, it has been days of purging illness from you. Sauron's wicked tonic has not easily left your system," Thranduil supplied.

"Sauron." Legolas shook his head, trying to put together the bits of memory. And then he remembered bits of memory that crept into the space between his previous wakenings. There had been the knife, the plunge into the wound to dig the splinter out, and then waking. But in between, now he recalled wrenching sickness, shouts of fury, hands pressing him down, fever. Dream or reality, it all seemed the same somehow. "Sauron's wicked tonic you say? I do not…remember… "

"It was Him, the demon Himself. You were made to drink the tonic that was Him in purest form, not diluted as the Entdraught had been. It was a vile poison we have tried to draw out of you."

"And Mithtaur fed this to me?" Legolas asked, not remembering though he knew enough from his waking in Lothlorien to understand that if it was Faeldaer who had done this in his dreams then in reality it would have been the Ent.

"Nay, it was I. I did it," Gimli announced, his voice low and contrite. "I forced the drink on you that made you sick."

Legolas looked at him, astounded. He looked then at his father. He knew Thranduil was capable such dark deeds. Had he not been plied into submission under the eaves of Mirkwood? Legolas had thought himself free of that manipulation when he had left Thranduil's realm. But Gimli? The dwarf looked as if he would be ill himself, and Legolas could see the dark shadows beneath his eyes that told of his friend's sleeplessness and guilt. Gimli would not meet his eyes.

And then asserting himself, Legolas said, "There is a tale to tell. I would hear it." With that, the long story of all they had endured was relayed to him. Much he knew, but the last part of the saga was not in his mind. He learned of the actions that led to entering the cave, the fight to free him, and the sickness that they had been tending to these last many days. It had been four days now since they had emerged from the collapsing cave.

More, he learned of the intentions of Sauron. Those he had not known. He shuddered at the thought of housing the Dark Lord's soul within the shell of his own body.

When all was said, Legolas turned to Gimli and asked, "Did you know the water was foul when you gave it to me?"

But the dwarf remained silent, his failure to reply sufficing as answer.

Legolas was stunned. He looked at his father, putting together all the pieces of the tale as applied to the bigger past. "The Dwarf Ring was given to you by Annatar."

Thranduil nodded, adding, "By a woman I believed was kin to him."

"Perhaps she _was_ Him," Legolas suggested, thinking of the power Sauron had to alter his form. Thranduil's face reddened suddenly then, but Legolas felt no sympathy. "You knew It was a Dwarf Ring when you gave It to Gimli."

"In truth, the Ring found me," Gimli offered reservedly.

Legolas overruled him, focusing on Thranduil. "You had opportunity to reclaim It. You did not. You gave It to him, knowing fully that It was a tainted bauble, capable of dark deeds."

"It was made for his kind, not me. Sauron's power was in the One Ring, and that had been destroyed. I thought It would be better placed with Gimli. I could never make It do what he could," Thranduil defended.

"It should have never been allowed to come to him!" Legolas proclaimed.

"By coming to him, your life was saved!" Thranduil countered. "Had It not, Sauron would have destroyed us all when He emerged out of Mírnen lake to claim you!"

"Yet you did not safeguard Gimli after. You knew the darkness in the Ring. You let It take claim of him!"

"I am sorry for that Legolas, but I was rather occupied at the time with trying to keep you alive and sane!"

The story was too big. Legolas was only just coming to some resolution in putting all the pieces together. Had his father truly acted all these years as a pawn to Sauron? And could Gimli, after having spent months in the presence of the One Ring, really have relinquished his will to that of a secondary Ring, one that directed him to hurt his friend?

But then he thought of his own complicity in Sauron's actions, victim to a fantasy that had been placed in his mind. He had drunk it up willingly. Literally. He remembered this, eager to believe the lie. He had wanted the love of Faeldaer and the quiet peace granted him in Mírnen. Even now he felt his heart squeezed by his misery of losing his one true love, and he knew he could easily curl up and wallow in his melancholy for the loss. That part of the tale was false though, all of it, and that was the worst of it. Faeldaer had never really existed. He had never loved Legolas. He had never even_ known_ Legolas.

Further, Legolas had created the bed in which this misery could grow by refusing to believe it a lie. Had Thranduil not done the same in believing his friendship with Annatar true? And that belief had been the nursing bed for all the anguish Thranduil and Legolas had come to endure since. Legolas's own reckoning sadness was the nest for Sauron's further deception. He had come into Sauron's lair an easy victim. He had already been lost. He was as culpable as all of them.

It was Fangorn who spoke then. "No one of us is innocent of guilt. Gimli was manipulated into doing this and he blames himself for allowing it. Yet the Ring compelled him to it, and he knew not his mind. Thranduil can say the same of his time with the Ring, and before that with Annatar. Mithtaur was ruined by Sauron's poison when He cursed these lands, His essence coming then to pervade and take shape. And so Mithtaur's mind too was altered. He was manipulated, as were we all, all. As were you, Legolas of the Greenwood. So much destruction and harm have come of Sauron's doings. Over and over again through the years Morgoth's lieutenant has created misery and ill deeds. The dwarf was not responsible for what was forced upon him and Thranduil could not safeguard him against an evil he thought done. Subtlety of deception. This has been the Dark Lord's power always," the Ent said. "You must forgive Gimli son of Gloin this just as you must forgive your father."

_Forgive. _Legolas paused on those words.

Could he forgive his friend for becoming easy prey to Sauron's doing, essentially betraying him because of a weak will? It hurt to think Gimli would be so vulnerable. Would he have done such to the dwarf?

But then he remembered that he had given up on Gimli too by believing him dead and opening the door for Faeldaer to tend his broken spirit.

But Fangorn wanted Legolas to forgive them all and forgiveness required kindness. Was he feeling kind? And if kindness was being freely given, could it be said Legolas was not responsible the harm he had caused too? He felt immensely responsible for bringing everyone to this point, hovering over him, tending him like a weak child, a newborn hatchling. Could Legolas himself be forgiven?

He turned his gaze upon his father and remembered all that had been done through him. Was he supposed to pity too Thranduil's past, feeling bad that he had been so horribly manipulated? He felt suddenly as if the Ent was asking him to forget the past entirely. A fresh wave of anger washed over him. His father had done so much to him! _Forgive?_ Thranduil met his eyes, but then he too turned away, as if reading his heart.

Confused and angered, Legolas looked up at the Ent. "Forgive…" he began. His gaze then swept out to Mithtaur silently swaying on the other side of the cleared plain. He felt wrong for what he was about to say, for he knew Mithtaur was guileless in his actions. Yet he also felt like lashing out against the request put upon him. He could not simply relinquish his anger. "What of all that has been done of your wood, Lord Fangorn? Can you forgive that?"

"No," Thranduil answered, iterating Legolas's thoughts. "Forgiveness does not come with a word." And then he reached out a hand and touched it to Legolas's chest.

Legolas felt the warmth, the resonance of compassion, the feeling of love that filtered through his father's touch. And it irritated him. He almost pushed the hand away. But he did not. Something else within him drank up the tenderness that met his heart in their spiritual connection. Thranduil finished, "It must be earned."

He was tired and his anger was draining him. He knew he must prove himself somehow, that his own forgiveness centered around finding new ways to trust and believing. "I will drink," he finally said.

Thranduil released him from the touch and then brought out the waterskin again, supporting the weight of it as he guided it to Legolas's mouth. Legolas found he was thirsty. He had not realized it. The water was cool in his mouth, quenching the burning of a dry throat. And more, a soothing calm came over him as the liquid slid into his belly. Halting, he tested the taste. It was water, pure and clean. But as he looked at Gimli and his father, he noted the eager and glad expressions they wore.

"You look immensely pleased." He could not muster any strength in his voice.

Gimli explained, "It has been days. Before this, the mere taste of Nimrodel water would cause you to retch."

The memories visited him then. Confusion, pain, anger, and delirium. _"He should be mine! I will not die! Free me and I will make kings of you all! Mine!" _The words echoed in his head along with memories of fire and pain. The voice had been his but the reasoning behind the words meant nothing to him. He could only recall fury and leeching darkness. Had he said these things?

Gimli seemed to understand his confusion. He looked almost shameful as he said, "Your body was purging the effects of the poison you were dosed with."

He understood. His body was trying to cleanse itself.

"Has it been tried on Mithtaur yet?" Legolas asked, looking up to Fangorn and feeling badly that he had been so stern in his reproach to the Ent. He could see now that all Fangorn desired was a cure for his friend. And with that he imagined the tables turned and how he might react were he the one looking in on a sick friend, if it was Gimli in his place. The maimed land was just that: maimed. It could be repaired. But what of the one he loved? Could he be healed?

And with that, Legolas knew this is what was being asked of him, not just by Gimli but also by his father: could he find it in him, over time, to forgive what had been done to him? It was not an immediate answer any of them wanted, just the hope that perhaps someday it might come.

Legolas turned away from his father then and dipped his head toward the dwarf. "I can forgive you, Gimli," he said. "I do not believe you meant harm to me. You have always been kind." His friend looked up at him, eyes shining in joy at the unexpected gift Legolas had bestowed.

And Thranduil turned away, his hand drawing back in the movement. Legolas knew there was more wanted of him, but this was all he could give at the moment.

xxxxxxxx

Thranduil was struck by Fangorn's words as he watched Gimli hand bits of meat to Legolas from the tip of his knife. _So like a newly-hatched bird_, he thought, _unable to fly yet and thus nested carefully, eating the scraps brought it_.

Legolas ate with gusto. But he quickly tired, his appetite waning as fatigue overtook him, almost falling asleep mid-bite. It was a good start though.

Gimli looked immensely pleased regardless of how little Legolas ate. That he was on the mend, past the poisonous effects of Sauron's tonic, was what he celebrated. The illness had been a source of guilt to him for many days.

Thranduil was glad for Gimli too. Through and through the dwarf had acted a loyal friend. It was only in the end that he had succumbed to Sauron and the power of the Dwarf Ring, of Passion. Had it not been for that, Thranduil knew Gimli would have never faltered. But of course Gimli felt he had failed them all. It was fortunate then that Legolas had found it in his heart to forgive him. Truly Thranduil had had no doubt.

But he had done it so easily, and that was the part that was eating away at Thranduil. Had it always been in Legolas to forgive with so little effort?

Yet Thranduil knew better. Though Legolas was better, his mind seeming his own, Thranduil could feel his son's spirit doing battle still against tumultuous feelings, remnant effects of the poisoned water. The days of fever were now past and his son was vastly improved; to that Thranduil was thankful. Yet the after-effect was still with him, and that accounted much for Legolas's dark mood.

His memory took him back just three days earlier, and in his recollection he was compelled to live again his fear.

There was so much blood, he thought. So much. It was as if he was living that day so many years back, when he and his son had argued about the fate of Laeraniel. Only this time it had been Legolas who had thrust the blade, not Thranduil.

And this time instead of Sauron imbedding Himself within their family, he was purged. Legolas had made sure of that when he had whispered to his father to "Wash Him away." Thranduil understood as if Nenya Itself had spoken the words. Nimrodel water would wash the shard away.

Indeed he had poured the water over the wound, and the splinter, no more than the length of his nail, came away, foaming and flaming as it washed to the ground. Daerion did the rest, choking off the severed vein and stitching it closed so the bleeding would stop. One would think that was enough.

It was not.

Legolas lost consciousness when the Nimrodel water was brought forth. He saw nothing of the burning shard or the surgery. Blood loss made him weak and he remained in repose the remainder of the day.

But at night the fever erupted.

Thranduil had expected he might be ill. So much blood had been lost. But the fever was violent and Legolas had awakened, shaking and screaming. "Mine! Mine! I claim him still!"

The voice was not Legolas's, not as Thranduil would know him. The melodious tones of his speech, the thoughtful contemplation of words with a downcast glance, the small smile framed by a golden fall of hair, those were absent. The face, still glorious with high cheekbones, still handsome with chiseled jaw, was twisted into a vicious snarl, and Thranduil immediately recognized the mask of Sauron layered within the visage of his son. "Mine!" the beautiful demon claimed. And Thranduil quaked. How could they have fought so hard only to lose now?

It was Gimli's confession that made him realize what had been done. The drink Legolas had been fed was still within him. Thranduil shuddered thinking the potency of it; when Legolas had been fed the Entdraught, that had been a diluted potion that he seemed to slowly recover from in the safety of Lothlorien. The small pool in the cave was a far more potent tonic. Thranduil remembered the spray of it on his skin, burning. What Legolas had been given…It was like drinking poison.

Thranduil cursed such a fate. Would they never be done with this?

Yet he thought again his son's words, "Wash Him away." And with that he decided the Nimrodel water might serve again. If it could drive the shard from his son's body, could it not cleanse Sauron's poison from him too?

Thought and action are not always the same. It would have been well if just feeding Legolas this new drink would be enough. But Legolas fought them, biting, kicking, howling as they fought to get the Nimrodel water in him. The only consolation was that there was nothing for Sauron to truly latch onto. The shard, which He had tried to work into Legolas's heart, was gone. And Legolas's soul united by love was no longer availed to Him either. His possession of Legolas was fleeting at best. At least that was how Thranduil perceived it.

Still, Thranduil decided to send his men away, keeping only Daerion, his most loyal, with him. He did not want them to see his son so lost, nor did he think their presence would help heal Legolas. Daerion could be Thranduil's protector if needed, but the elf king wanted no others.

That loyalty was appreciated. Thranduil was glad on the nights when Legolas fought him, retching violently at the dosing of Nimrodel water fed him, and cursing like a creature possessed, that no others were present.

Not that he cared what might be said of him. Something had changed in him and it simply did not matter if his people knew he was tending his son gone mad. What did concern him though was how Legolas would feel having so many witnesses to such possession. In sending his people away, he was protecting his son.

Over the days, true to his supposition, the effects of Sauron's tonic seemed to wane as more of the Nimrodel water was fed Legolas. This latest delivery from Galadriel and Celeborn assured him he would have sufficient amounts to see his son thoroughly detoxified. He did not doubt this, even if others – most specifically Fangorn – felt contrary.

What hurt Thranduil though was the lack of recognition that he had been trying to help his son. The elf thought perhaps Gimli saw, and of course Daerion would not fault him. But Legolas, sweet Legolas –that is whose notice he wished. And from there, perhaps someday, forgiveness would come.

But it was not excuse enough for the moment. Perhaps it was in Legolas's eternal being to forgive, but the crimes Thranduil had committed against him could not be remedied in a single apology or actions taken in a fortnight. Using his own words, he knew that forgiveness had to be earned. And that was his intent. Now. Forever if need be. It would never be too long to try, he decided. He was an elf. He had forever to work toward forgiveness.

Still, he hoped it would not take that long.

TBC


	77. A Time to Move On

**Dark Forest  
**_By Anarithilien_

_Part Four: When Worlds Unite  
Chapter Seventy-Seven: A Time to Move On_

It was time to get up. No more could he languish, feeling small, pitiful, weak as he recovered from his illness and wound. Legolas was not satisfied to slowly recuperate. Always he had been one to push himself. And now it was time to push himself to rise. It was time to leave.

He wrestled aside the cloaks and the heavy blankets that had been covering him and edged himself forward so as to gain ground beneath him. He bent his good leg, the right one, so as to draw his weight over it to stand. His wounded leg, the left, remained stiff and he did his best not to jar it for the pain. He knew he could have called out for help, but he did not want it. He could not continue to rely upon others to serve him if he was to forge a life forward.

Grimacing, he brought his hands to the ground and pushed his weight into them. Simultaneously he realized it would be impossible to rise without bending his injured leg. He flinched as he did, but he was able to roll quickly, rising in a move that was hardly graceful though it served its purpose. He was up, and he had done so without crying out or needing aide. He was quite pleased with himself for that.

What to do now that he had risen was another matter. He may have made his mind up to go, but that did not mean others were privy to his plans.

Brushing fingers through his hair and straightening the loose-fitting clothes he had been dressed in, he pulled his tunic from the pile that had been draped over him and donned it, along with his belt which he found hanging from one of the tent posts. Lastly, he reached for his Lorien cloak. The warmth he found in it was immediate and he felt suddenly stronger. It firmed his resolve.

His motion drew notice and Gimli was the first to call out. "Legolas, you are up!"

Carefully he bent to retrieve one of the blankets that had been used to cover him and he began to fold it as he stood. He felt on display as all turned to look at him, but he shoved any discomfort aside and nodded, trying to control his mood.

He had been plagued these last days with bouts of irritation and anger, and this innocent comment from Gimli elicited a sharp flare of annoyance in him. He knew this was the residual effect of Sauron's play upon his soul and he fought it off. Had he been unaware, he might have answered with a cutting remark, but it was not warranted. There was good in him and he had to lean into it. "I think it is time we must go," he said. And somehow in not replying with anger, he felt stronger.

"I am not sure you are recovered enough for that, my prince," Daerion countered, coming forward as he scanned Legolas's stance. It was clear Legolas favored his right leg, his left knee bent and only the toe lightly resting into the ground.

"Your leg," Thranduil began, but Legolas shook his head, waving him off. He had risen. He was standing. All he need do was ride and they could be on their way. In mounting, he might need to call for aid, but he was certain once they came to agree with his decision they would be of assistance.

Still, his father persisted. "You should not be putting weight upon it."

He was not. It unnerved Legolas a bit that his father thought him unable to discern this himself. "I intend to let Arod carry me; I will not be walking myself."

"I think it harms us none to stay here a few days more until you are better," Thranduil insisted.

"No!" Legolas began, his voice rising as the others flinched. Legolas, when he wanted to use it, had a commanding way about him. That must be how he was perceived now. And realizing this, and that it was unnecessary to take such a firm stance, Legolas knew he must soften himself. They were at war no more. He took a breath, thinking, _This is Sauron's doing. I must not give in to it._ Quelling the rise in his voice, he tried again, donning a softer tone. He took a deep breath and stilled his irritation, trying again in a calmer voice, "Is anyone benefitted by our stay here? My leg will heal whether we stay or we go. I think it is time to go."

"You would benefit from the rest," Thranduil tried again, but Legolas shook his head.

"I weary of resting. Further, it is time for Gimli to go home. I suspect we are nearing the Yule and his family most likely would wish to see him and to know he is safe." He looked at Gimli then who seemed torn in his loyalties. It was obvious to Legolas that indeed he would like to go home, but Legolas also knew he would wish to see him better healed. All the more reason to be on their way, he thought.

Yet as much as he was victim to the bouts of wrath of Sauron's vestiges, he had to maintain who he was as well. And one thing Legolas had always been was determined. He did not wait for an answer, but instead whistled, calling Arod to him, giving no more opportunity for argument.

The horse lifted his head at the alert, ears twitching wildly as he immediately whinnied in answer. Arod immediately trotted forward like an obedient dog, clearly excited at the prospect of being called by his master. The horse almost knocked him over in his enthusiasm to see Legolas, and it was wondrous that such a small thing could make him feel better. Something about the love of the beast amused Legolas greatly. Perhaps it was his unquestioning affection, or his absolute trust and loyalty. Regardless of the reason, Legolas felt great love for the animal. He hugged Arod, pulling his snout into his chest. Somehow sensing Legolas's injuries, the horse let him lean against him and did not pull back.

Then thinking to assure his father and friends he said, measuring his words to be certain they did not sound terse or offending, "I will not stress my leg but instead will wait here with Arod as the camp is broken."

Thranduil paused, meeting Legolas's eyes. And perhaps because he realized his son - the stubborn and willful part of him that had always been there, even before Sauron - would brook no further argument, the elf king nodded, dipping his chin and grunting to Gimli before turning away to gather up their supplies.

Gimli sidled over to Legolas then. He wore a tentative smirk that bespoke his amusement at the younger elf's demands. Yet he handed Legolas the waterskin containing the Nimrodel water. Gimli understood well what Legolas fought, for this was the curative they had been using to purge the toxins from Legolas's body.

"So we leave for my sake," Gimli said, the statement more question than comment. "So that I might finally return home. Hmm. But what of you, Legolas? Might you have designs on getting home too?"

Legolas turned away from the camp, looking out instead to the new landscape he had played a part in creating. He had been peering at it these last few days contemplating the acts he had committed, trying to decide if they were for the better or the worse. Fangorn had yet to place blame on him or any others, though Legolas knew Mithtaur was not yet given reprieve or absolution. Legolas was undecided yet on whether it was better the ruin that had been there was now gone, or if it should have remained, perhaps healing itself now that the taint of evil was removed. He knew that, either way, time would eventually make it better, but he wondered if the ultimate removal of the past healed things quicker. Such was the debate he held with himself. And such was the astute eye of the dwarf to perceive the conflict in his mind and to comment so succinctly upon it. "I am not sure where my home is yet, Gimli," he returned.

But the dwarf harrumphed as if reading his thoughts. He knew them better than Legolas. "I think you know, you just have not proclaimed it yet."

"The world has been altered. It is not the same as it had once been," Legolas said simply enough. It was an understatement, clearly.

There was no timidity in Gimli's snorted reply. "Mahal's balls! Stop tiptoeing around your feelings! What you mean is you do not know if it is safe to trust your father yet. He is one of the things in your world that has been altered, is he not?"

"There are many things that are different now," Legolas pointed out.

"But he is chief among the things you wonder about. You are trying to decide if he is worthy your trust and whether it is wise to make his home yours again," the dwarf pressed, and Legolas dipped his head in agreement.

"Yes," he answered. He paused, frowning. Arod, sensing his change of moods, rubbed his head into Legolas's chest, as if trying to indicate he wished a good scratch behind the ears. Legolas obliged, and the horse's distraction gave him the opening to ask what was on his mind. "I am trying to decide if there is the possibility that good came out of all this, Gimli. I remember what the lands here looked like before; it was not good. By all accounts, the forest here was a wasteland, beyond ruin. And of course, we know now it was Sauron's influence that made it so. But now that has all been washed away. Sauron is no longer here to hurt the land, and it is possible it may heal as it should have without His effect. To that it could be reasoned that our presence did good, could it not?"

"It could," Gimli slowly drawled.

Remembering then that he held the waterskin, he uncorked the flask and took a small sip. Legolas felt the cooling effect of the water slide over his mood. He had thought himself calm already, but in that moment he found his muscles relaxing a bit more of their tension, and he sighed. He took another sip, knowing it helped to wash what was left of Sauron away from him.

"Is that true for all the things Sauron affected?" he asked. "The lands of Ithilien? The southern reaches of Mirkwood?"

"Your father?"

Legolas did not answer that question, but his affirmation was implied as well.

Gimli came even closer, laying a hand on Arod's flank as he looked up at the elf. "I think his heart has been in the right place, Legolas. Maybe once he had been influenced by dark forces, but that dissipated when he was freed from the Dwarf Ring. He found his heart again. I truly believe he wants what is best for you."

"You wish me to forgive him," Legolas surmised.

"I was affected by the same Passion as he, and yet you have forgiven me for it," Gimli defended, "and you know me less! We have been friends for roughly a year, that is all."

"You are a brother to me," Legolas argued. "We are kin to the same war. I feel I have known you forever."

"And yet it has only been for a year. He has been your father and you have known him forever. You may think that a poor argument, that he has done a paltry job of proving his faith to you, but I have watched him be a guard to your heart these many weeks. You do not know how we feared you would perish, especially once it was realized what Sauron did to you… I mean with Faeldaer..." He cleared his throat, undoubtedly uncomfortable with the topic, before going on. "Elf hearts, I hear, can be… And the sea… What I mean to say is Thranduil has diminished its pull on you as well with that thing he does, touching your chest." Shuffling his feet, Gimli seemed embarrassed and uncertain how to express the tenderness he had been witness to, and Legolas felt humbled by his words. It could not be easy for Gimli to say kind things about one that he held such disdain for only a year before.

He put his hand to his heart, feeling the steady beat of it, the warmth that resonated from the center of his chest, and he had to admit he felt whole, despite the trauma of such a devastating heartache as the loss of what he thought was true love. _Faeldaer_, he thought with utmost sadness. But he was not crippled by it. Somehow he recognized the futility of his longing. Faeldaer was a fantasy. He did not exist. Not for Legolas at least.

And the sea… the sea was only a minor drone in his mind, not the loud pounding that sometimes overwhelmed him to the point that he could hear, see, think of nothing else. No, it was not haunting him now either, and Legolas acknowledged his gratitude for that. Was it possible Thranduil was responsible for that as well? Gimli said it was so.

Legolas turned his head, gazing back toward his father who was breaking the camp with Daerion. Mindfully tying off packs to one of the horses, he was hardly the image of the demanding king Legolas had always thought him to be. Instead he seemed more like one Legolas might share command. He watched too as Daerion handed off another pack like he might a fellow traveler, not a commander or high ruler. He did so with equity and an easygoing respect. Given the ruthless despot Thranduil had always seemed to Legolas, he wondered that other Mirkwood elves could regard the elf-king with adoration.

Always it had been thus. As a child Legolas had felt such pride for the love his father inspired, but when he grew older and witnessed the shattering of his mother's grasp on her heart, and Thranduil's utter inability to release her so that she might take a grey ship -for the sake of her life!- Legolas had started to see his father differently.

He grit his teeth and turned his head away. He recalled his great anger then, the fight between them, wrestling with the knife. He felt as if the moment was upon him, there, now. His leg throbbed with the stab of his wound, both old and new, and he put his hand down to the white bandage wrapped around his thigh, visible through the shredded fabric of his leggings. It was bandaged carefully, white swathes wrapped around and around his scarred leg. He had seen the wound earlier when Daerion had redressed it, gruesome stitches pulling flesh together, but barely did it seem a limb he would recognize for the deep dip in his thigh where muscle should be. He would walk with a limp for a long time, at least that is what Daerion told him, but Legolas was determined to conquer this infirmity.

Still, the recollection of the pain from his stabbing jarred him. He shook it away, refusing it in his mind. This was the curse of elves, he thought, the keenness of memory. Desperately he wanted it to be dulled, wishing his feelings could be softened just as Gimli's had softened. On a whim he could recall all aspects of his hurts. He wanted none of them. He longed for faded memories that would allow his pain to melt to a tolerable ache.

He thought then on another sharp recollection, that of Faeldaer convincing him his father needed to be forgiven. Given what he knew now of that event, he wondered that Sauron would do such a thing. Would it not create a stronger bond between them if Faeldaer had concurred with Legolas's original dark feelings for the elf-king? Yet Legolas knew too that the long, gradual relationship of discord, growing into a slow measure of agreement, acceptance, respect, and finally love, was the foundation of his love for Faeldaer. Sauron had been patient in winning Legolas's heart, and he had been thorough in convincing Legolas to forgive Thranduil.

Ordinarily he might think the absolute opposite; this was Sauron's manipulation he was reckoning with after all. But Gimli had pled the same cause. Could Legolas doubt Gimli?

And then he used his brilliant memory to recall his father's kingdom when Legolas was nothing more than a silent observer, years after their estrangement, no longer a denizen of his father's abode. He remembered the kind words Thranduil would offer his servants, the fair judgments he delivered in court, the simplicity of the household he kept despite his tremendous admiration for treasure and gold. And he knew Thranduil was loved by his people, just as he had been when Legolas was a child. Nothing had changed for his people, even if Legolas's heart had been torn by the death of his mother. The Mirkwood elves still saw their king as just and even-handed. He may not have been Silvan-born, but he was not an unreasonable ruler, protecting his subjects with all the might he could muster, even if Legolas did not always agree with his tactics.

It seemed then that perhaps everything Gimli, and Faeldaer, had said to him might be true, that his view of Thranduil – of his father, he corrected – was jaded. Legolas had found the elf-king hateful because he had wanted to hate him. No others seemed to share that view.

At that moment his father glanced up, spying Legolas's focused stare. Legolas might have otherwise turned away, but he had been asked to find it in him to forgive, and he held his gaze, trying with the whole of his soul to see the other elf as he really was. Thranduil maintained his eye contact, neither smiling nor frowning but instead simply watching. And wondering what was in his son's mind, Legolas supposed.

Faeldaer had said Thranduil had committed his crimes against him for the sake of keeping him safe, and Legolas could reason that. Letting one you loved go, especially into the heart of evil, was a hard thing to do. Thinking now on what he knew of love, he was not sure he could hand off a committed love, one with whom he had an eternal bond, to the dangers that darkness posed. He could understand why Thranduil did what he did, even if he did not agree with his methods. And as Gimli said, if Legolas could forgive the dwarf's mistakes, it was only fair that he do the same for another who loved him a lifetime's worth.

Legolas looked back then to Gimli, realizing only now that the dwarf had been watching him as he had pondered these thoughts. He felt his face redden, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. But he straightened then, looking deeply into the eyes of the dwarf, the intensity causing his friend to blink and glance away. It was as Legolas intended, gaining now the upper hand.

"Will you ride at my back, Gimli?" he asked, returning them now to where they ought be in this conversation.

"If it is what you want of me," the dwarf answered, seeming to add a note of gruffness to his response. "Though you know I have no love for any creature that walks on four feet instead of two. I prefer my own legs. Still, if you would want it of me, I will ride…"

Legolas cocked a brow at him, the message in his expression speaking volumes to any who might truly know him. If Gimli intended him to beg him for his company as they rode, it would not happen. Yet he would want him. Gimli was his touchstone. Legolas had said he was a brother and the elf would have it no other way.

The dwarf nodded, the message read. "Let me get our packs. I will be ready shortly."

A year was all they had been of the Fellowship, but their bond was of the heart. It was eternal. Gimli understood Legolas as no other and Legolas realized then how deeply he had missed his friend in the time he had been parted from him. Weeks perhaps it had been in real time, but years it had been for Legolas, and he felt his chest tighten with recollection of his loneliness and mourning in that time. And to think on the dwarf's fleeting life only made his heart ache more. He wondered then if his father could heal the hurt that would come when Gimli passed. Now that would be a true act of salvation!

He closed his eyes, not wishing to think on this more. Gimli's death would hurt. It would hurt. But that moment was not upon him yet.

"Will you help me onto Arod's back, Gimli?" he asked, pushing away the lump in his throat.

"If you would be still, I will be ready to leave in but a few minutes," the dwarf scolded him, misunderstanding the elf's intent as that of impatience.

"Take the time you need. I have a small errand to do. My leg simply will not carry me," Legolas explained.

"For now," Gimli amended, smiling encouragingly and seeming glad to find his friend in a better state. Lacing his fingers together, he helped to lift Legolas onto the horse's back just as the elf had done for him many times over. It was an awkward mounting, for with his leg he could not approach from the left, but Arod seemed not to be fazed and stood still for him.

Legolas smiled as he settled himself into his seat. "For now," he agreed, adding to the dwarf's comment. And then he came to think how others might see him, maimed as he was. He would walk with a limp, graceless and clumsy. Many would see him as handicapped, permanently marred. Of course he could wallow in that, let it sink into his soul. That was the elven way, allowing such injury to linger over his spirit, dragging him down into melancholy and misery. Yet that was the failure of elves. They held to the paths of memory, never letting it be altered by changes brought on by time.

Yet time would heal him if he would let it. Daerion and the healers in Lothlorien had said that so long as his spirit was willing he would recover strength and mobility and learn how to compensate his injuries through use of other muscles. He mused that the caveat was placed before him that his spirit must want to heal before his body would do so. But somehow Legolas thought nothing else but that he would recover, that he must. Perhaps it was his companionship with mortals who respected time's gifts that made him think like this.

And he realized then too that he would – he could - recover in spirit just the same if he would allow it. By compensating and retraining his muscles and bones to move differently, he would heal in body. If he could do the same with his mind, perhaps he would heal in spirit. Dwelling on memory, living always the same perception, that was what hindered him. It was the elvish way to have such keen recollection, but if memory never changed, if it could not be dulled by time, it was like time was held still. The lands did not alter while Sauron held them because He would not relinquish His hold; the same was true of elven memory.

What was important was learning to let the past go, not living it over and over again. Being present now was what he must be, for that was all he could truly live. All three aspects of time, past, present, and future, were things he had never really considered before knowing mortal kind. He was now coming to recognize that they were not all the same thing, and, like his healing, he must start to retrain his mind and spirit around them. The past was done and unalterable. The future was amorphous and always bending. This moment though, that was what he must live for.

Never had he considered time's role in healing his soul. Suddenly he felt buoyed it. He let a sense of peace ride over him. He was now aware of time. It was a fleeting thing, and all the things he now loved were marked by it. Yet he must appreciate what he had now, always. Time moved, and he would move with it. And if he followed this course, just as he would recover in body because he must, so too would he recover his heart.

Once more he glanced at Thranduil as he spun around on the horse. To heal was to overlook the past and to see what was before him now. He knew that. He understood. And with that he set off, one last matter to deal with before they parted.

xxxxxxxx

Gimli lifted his eyes to glance across the field. His gaze was a furtive, clandestine thing, watching while pretending not to, but Thranduil saw it. The dwarf was anxious and Thranduil recognized that Gimli was eager for Legolas to return. He had not been gone long, so for the elvenking it was amusing to think how much concern Gimli felt for the son of one who had once been his foe. And likewise, recalling moments in their camp and the easy camaraderie there was between them, Thranduil was beginning to see how much his son felt for the dwarf in turn.

Thranduil was not so surreptitious as the dwarf though. He watched for his son without guarding his eyes, his tasks done, the bedrolls tied and fastened to the packhorse, all the gear readied away. The camp was dismantled and they simply awaited Legolas's return. He would not shy from watching for him because he had no better task.

Still, that did not mean he had to be idle. He settled himself on a log before the dwindling heat of their campfire, the only thing yet telling of their presence in this place. It was a simple enough thing to stomp the flames out, and while he waited he figured he might as well warm his feet and hands.

Daerion had already settled there and was fletching new arrows to occupy his time. Legolas had asked that he be given access to his bow, and it seemed Daerion would gift him with a new store of bolts. Thranduil thought it fortunate that they had found the weapon in the hollow of the tree on their previous visit. He imagined the loss would have been another blow to Legolas, for it was a beautiful weapon. In fact, Thranduil's warriors had treated the Galadhrim bow with reverence, reconditioning it so that now it shone with a radiant glow. He reached over Daerion and lifted it, marveling at its lightness, running his hands over the delicate runes carved into it, fingering the grooves where his son's fingers fit the curving shaft. Given its present beauty, he would never have guessed that it had been left to the elements for weeks unattended.

He leaned the bow against his thigh and reached down to grab a raw shaft from the stack of identically cut reeds, the nock already cut. Daerion had a small pile complete, grey feathers with green threads, Legolas's preferred colors. But fletching was a careful craft and Daerion was working in stages. Thranduil took out his knife to help. He could imagine Legolas doing the same in the days to come. The king knew every archer preferred to make his own bolts, but he also knew there was no such thing as too many arrows and Legolas would not decline the gift of more.

Spinning the reed between his fingers, he looked for irregularities, honing off burrs as he found them. When he was satisfied with the trueness of the rod, he tapered the end for the arrowhead, and then cut the seats for the vanes. At another time the feathers and point would be added, but for now this task would be enough.

It felt good to have an activity, and a slow song came to his throat as he worked the craft. Soon Gimli settled down on an adjacent log and began honing one of his blades in companionship. It was a comfortable and friendly setting.

Thranduil glanced up again to see if Legolas was returning when the song came to its end, but as he was not, he continued in his task. Lightly he said, "I have always enjoyed the task of fletching. I once thought I might do this as a profession."

Gimli scoffed, clearly amused by the visual of that. "But you are a king."

"I have not always been such," he countered. "I was an aide of the court before this, and before that I was merely the son of an aide of the court."

"But always of the court," Gimli pointed out.

"As a child I spent many hours in the armory. Those were good memories."

Gimli smiled, shaking his head, gazing still at his work, "I imagine you nowhere else but the court. Your personality is too large to be a mere fletcher."

"I am not large," Thranduil protested, but he noticed Daerion's chin tug down to hide his smile. Quirking an eye at the last remaining warrior in his company, he said, "I am king by default only. It was my father who had a personality that demanded notice." He was winning no one over in this and so he changed his tact, settling in his seat as he went back to his task. "Legolas is the better yet between us. He has the skill that my father commanded and he understands the Silvans in ways Oropher and I could not."

Daerion only shrugged. "It is not mine to speculate these things. I am satisfied with you as king."

"Well, I did not know him, but if Oropher was as strong-willed and certain of his skills as Legolas, and as blatant and forceful as you, I imagine he was a force to be reckoned," Gimli said, and to this Thranduil smiled, for indeed this described his father.

"Legolas is more like Oropher than he is me," Thranduil agreed. And upon saying that he turned his head, for he could sense his son's return. His eyes sought him out, riding across the field on the back of Arod. The clouds had been heavy and grey this day, but they seemed to break at that moment and he saw the sun cast a brightening light over the plain, catching Legolas in the glow as he drew forward. The cantor of the horse lifted Legolas's hair, sweeping it behind him, and Thranduil was caught admiring the masterful way in which he moved, matching the rise and fall of Arod's gait. Almost it seemed Legolas smiled then, as if his worries had been relinquished in that moment when the sun drew out. Thranduil felt brief relief at this. He was not sure he would ever see his son finding happiness again, but that flicker of a smile lightened his heart.

Daerion's movement captured Thranduil's notice, and with little more than a nod and a gesture, Thranduil understood his intent. The elf put away his fletching and rose to retrieve their mounts. It was so Silvan, this silent communication. This was just as Legolas would do it.

The Silvans… Not ones to banter words, they were direct and to the point. Yet they were wise to the world, able to assess in an instant the harm or help being offered them. They did not bother with the pettiness of pretence but simply accepted what was presented them without marvel or expectation. They lived within the moment, and in this Thranduil thought them superior to all the other elven races he had known. More dangerous, less wise they were said to be. And he could attest to that for they did not value book knowledge as the other races did. Yet Thranduil realized such Noldor fancies were not all that important, especially when you were living in a dangerous forest haunted by the dark and mystical powers of the Necromancer. He had personally been taught to act as a high elf, to read and study in the more learned ways of the superior races, to rule with haughty authority; what good had it done him? Both he and Oropher had seen the decline of their realm (and in Oropher's case his own death) as a result of trusting that vaunted whim of superior Noldor wisdom. They had both opened themselves up to manipulation by catering to their doubts. Now he wished he had followed his original aspirations, playing a humbler role and letting someone with better senses take command.

The Silvans, he thought, were a cunning people. They always seemed to be aware of themselves and what they were doing. And that, more than his rule, had been the true reason they had survived all the years of Sauron's descending darkness over their wood. Thranduil knew now that he would wish to be among no others, and if there was anything he would amend it would be to find comfort in himself just as they did.

That conceded, he knew he should have let Legolas take rule of the kingdom long ago. It was arrogance that had stayed him, but he could realize now how often Legolas had been right. When he wanted to strike Dol Guldur when it was at its weakest, Legolas had been right. When he wanted to lead Laeraniel away to the sea so he might save her life by putting her on a grey ship, Legolas had been right. When he had overruled Thranduil's wishes and traveled on to Imladris to warn Elrond of Gollum's escape, Legolas had been right. Legolas was Silvan in his heart and his surety came with that. He would not blithely hazard plans without understanding all the angles of them. Thranduil should have appreciated that.

But Thranduil had been a pawn for Sauron's manipulation then and he eagerly devoured the fears fed him of losing his son. He saw now those were given him as means of keeping Legolas close and away from the enemy, for Sauron recognized Legolas to be a danger to the Dark powers. Thranduil saw now that Legolas had frightened Sauron. Clever and unpredictable like a Silvan, but also forceful and direct like a Sindarin. No wonder He had striven so fiercely to take Legolas in body and soul. Had Sauron succeeded in these last attempts to regain His power, it would have been a fitting way to annihilate the source of fear that Sauron had had to contest. Thranduil shuddered at the thought of what could have been.

As if privy to Thranduil's thoughts, Gimli uttered, "Legolas wishes to rule, you know." Thranduil looked at him, realizing then that the dwarf's eyes were fixed on Legolas too.

"Yes, I do know this," Thranduil replied. And with that he rose, taking up the Galadhrim bow.

Gimli started to stand as well, but Thranduil made a wordless noise that, with a glance, made it clear to the dwarf that he wished to speak with Legolas alone, for the moment at least. Not quite understanding, Gimli settled himself back onto the log. Thranduil added then, for the sake of the dwarf's wariness, "I should have given him the chance to do so long ago." Gimli shot him a questioning stare, but he did not voice his thoughts.

Thranduil then stepped forward toward the now open field that had, at one time, been lush forest before the Dark Lord's corruption had ruined it. Just the week before, in one colossal event, the land had been flattened and all signs of Sauron's works had been wiped away. It was a new beginning for this part of Fangorn. And now Legolas rode across it, returning to his father in what was perhaps a plea for a new beginning that he too might take.

As he waited, he watched Legolas ride. His son rode masterfully, his movements matching Arod's as he leaned back in his seat ever so slightly. Arod responded by slowing his cantor. Thranduil noted the horse's squared chest and the levelness of his hips to shoulders, admiring his even gait. Arod was a lovely animal, a fine gift from the Rohan people. Even the name, Arod, was fitting. Thranduil was not sure those people had intended his name to be a Sindarin word, for to Legolas, to Thranduil, or to any other that spoke the tongue of the elves, the name meant 'noble.' That was a fine word. Legolas looked like royalty as he rode Arod.

But then Thranduil mused that Legolas would likely sit well upon any horse. It had been at Laeraniel's urging that Legolas be given a common beast when he was old enough for his first horse – not one of the high bred horses Thranduil had been considering – but a nag with no natural grace. His wife had been convinced that if Legolas could learn to care for and control a lesser animal, then he could be a master to any beast. She had won out in that argument, and indeed her wisdom had proven right.

Yet Thranduil felt tentative as his son neared. He felt for a moment as if he was approaching a shy animal, for he sensed Legolas's trepidation, and he fought off the impulse to put out an upturned hand as an indication he was not hostile. He longed desperately to foster a relationship with Legolas anew, only he was unsure how to do that.

Instead he approached Arod, putting a hand out to the horse, and Arod nuzzled into his chest, butting him lightly, not realizing his strength as Thranduil was pushed back a step. He rubbed the horse's head and neck as he cocked his gaze upward in an expression of query. "You have completed your task then?" he asked, as if he had understood all along what Legolas had been up to.

His son nodded, his eyes quickly tracing over Thranduil before looking away again. But it seemed to Thranduil he was fighting his own battle of uncertainty for he sat a little taller then, causing Arod to shift with the movement as if he might be giving a new command. Thranduil watched his son's face as it wavered, a small flinch of pain at the corner of his eyes, and then a breath taken as he spoke his intent. "I went to make my farewells."

"We could have done that together," Thranduil began to say, but he recognized the admonishment in those words, and added, "but I suppose your purpose was greater than to just say goodbye." He looked then out to where Fangorn and Mithtaur stood, silent sentinels on this new horizon.

Thranduil noted that Legolas matched his gaze, and a wistful expression came over his features. "I wished to alleviate Mithtaur's anguish. He holds himself responsible for what came to us."

"Most especially what came to you," Thranduil pointed out, and he could see Legolas stiffen a little.

But then he took another breath and seemed to relax. "Yes, to me. Only I could tell him I do not hold him responsible. Do you know that Fangorn has no intent of punishing him?"

"I would not either were I in his position. There has been suffering enough," Thranduil replied, looking out again at the Ents in hopes of glimpsing their sad eyes, relaying in that his compassion.

"That is what I thought too. I meant to plead Mithtaur's case with Fangorn. Only, I learned, it is not Fangorn who has cast a ruling as to Mithtaur's fate. It is Mithtaur who has done this," Legolas said.

"But if Fangorn will not punish him that means he can begin anew. The land has been cleared. The opportunity exists to do anything he would wish."

"Yes," the younger agreed. "Yet he says there are too many memories here, that he is not deserving something so rich."

Thranduil frowned. "So what has he ascribed his punishment to be?"

"Exile," Legolas answered somberly.

"Exile?" Thranduil repeated. The word lingered between them as he considered what such a thing might mean to an Ent. Somehow his memory traveled back to a place in his childhood. He had been a young elf when he had seen the trees marching through Doriath. At least that was how it had appeared to him. He remembered someone saying to him those trees were Entwives cast out. At the time he had not thought to ask who would cast them out, or why. He recalled only that he had been awed by the spectacle, but he wondered now if their march had been posed on them for some crime or if it had been a fate they had pronounced upon themselves, just as Mithtaur's now seemed to be.

"Where will he go?" Thranduil asked, bringing himself back to the moment.

"He knows not," Legolas replied, his eyes fixed on the two silhouettes. "Fangorn beseeches him to stay. But I think the memories are too thick for him. Mithtaur wishes a new start."

Legolas shifted then, brow furrowing, a mask of contemplation disguising the deeper face of pain. Arod shuffled his feet, resetting them as Legolas squared himself. Thranduil watched this, guessing as to the meaning of his expression. He could feel his son's anxiety, but he could not speak on its reason for being. "You sympathize with him," he prodded.

"I do. It seems my heart tells me the same. I wish also to start anew," his son replied, but he would not look at Thranduil as he said this, and the elf lord judged that Legolas was preparing himself to be denied.

But then Legolas, somehow finding the will to press his point, did turn and their gazes met. Words unspoken passed between them but Thranduil grasped their meaning. This was a plea. "So this journey home is not for you," the elf king surmised, his heart twisting. "Do you choose exile as well?"

Legolas's expression confirmed his guess. "It is time I returned Gimli to his family," he agreed with a sigh. "I have leaned on him hard and he gives of himself without complaint, but I know he misses his home."

"But what of you?" Thranduil asked anxiously. "You say yourself that you wish a new start. Where would you go? Surely you have not chosen to abandon everything you know? Please tell me the Sea will not claim you."

"Nay, not the Sea. Not yet." Thranduil breathed out a sigh of relief. That would come soon enough, he knew, but he had thought with Nenya's help that he had alleviated that yearning enough to make it possible for his son to remain some years more. Thranduil now too appreciated the longing his son felt, for that was a side effect of being a Ring-bearer for the stone of adamant. But he could tolerate it. He hoped his son too could persevere. Yet it might be his son was abandoning him entirely, to which the distance of a sea might nearer. Thranduil was suddenly quite frightened.

Legolas paused and he seemed to ponder a reply. At last he said almost apologetically, "I have thought on this long. If nothing else, my experience here – with Faeldaer - has proven to me that I desire a rulership of my own. I think it is in me to lead."

This was as Gimli had said, and now it was Thranduil's turn to prove the truth of his own words. Without hesitation, and with the trueness of his heart he offered, "I would give you the Greenwood kingdom if that would appease you. I do not wish to see you go."

"Has that not always been the problem between us?" Legolas asked, his creased brow deepening. But then his eyes widened as if he could see the pain this smarting remark created. His brow softened as he waved his hand in a gesture of erasing the quip. "I am sorry. I do not mean that."

His lips turned up and his small smile seemed genuine and humble. "You relinquish your realm too readily, my king. Nay, it is not mine to rule. Your people love you and are suited to the way you rule. Mine is a kingdom elsewhere, so long as my heart can stave off the effects of the Sea." He paused a moment, putting a hand to his chest and dipping his gaze. And Thranduil could feel through his connection the pull that was there. But then he looked up as if finding the strength and courage to say what he must. "I have decided, with your leave, that I would seek out Ithilien. I long to see the beauty returned to it, and I long to be an aide to the new king of Gondor if I might. Aragorn is my friend, and Gimli too will take up with the Rohan folk. I would be near them both if I could be. In doing so, I think I might find my own peace."

Thranduil felt his heart squeezed by these words, fearing immediately for the dangers of communing with mortals. But he knew that was inevitable. All these months of travel left an indelible mark on his son's compassion toward the second born. He was hopelessly enamored and there would be no changing that. He was altered in that, but it seemed a good thing and he perceived their presence would be needed for his healing.

But he knew too that there was more to this reasoning than what Legolas would say. The truth was that too many dark deeds had come to Legolas in Mirkwood. Indeed he needed a new start, just as Mithtaur claimed, and Thranduil could only find it in his heart to agree. He found himself nodding though he was choked for words. He had done so much harm and his son did not want to be near him. All he could do was offer up the help to make his parting easier, to show with his generosity the depth of his love. And maybe in that Legolas would somehow see Thranduil's devotion and desire for such love to be returned. Yet with all he had done to hurt his son, he could not hold out hope for that. Instead it was his penance to give selflessly. And so he would, from now until evermore. He would give Legolas his blessings on this and all things that might give him joy, expecting nothing in return.

Trying to hold back the emotion that threatened to spill from him, he cleared his throat and soberly said, "You will need others to help you. When we return to the Greenwood I will make a request of our people to follow as they will. There are eager young in the realm who would welcome a new beginning just as you do. I am sure they will come and with my unquestioned blessing they will people your lands."

Legolas bowed his head, but he placed his hand to his heart and Thranduil felt the pinch of Sea-Longing touching him further. "Thank you," he said softly, shifting slightly as Arod sidestepped. He winced as if the move hurt.

"You are in pain," Thranduil suddenly said, reaching out to touch him before remembering his son's reluctance to be touched.

"My leg," Legolas acknowledged with a raised hand, his face hardening as if to dissuade the touch.

"Do you think it wise to travel?" the father in Thranduil said with concern, instantly regretting the admonishing sound of his words.

Legolas's nostrils flared with ire as he glanced around them, surveying the camp. "Of course. The horses are saddled and the packs are loaded. I would not hold us back…" But then he stopped himself, his brow softening, and it seemed he remembered something. He glanced quickly at Thranduil and then bowed his head, speaking softly. "Unless you command otherwise, my lord."

Startled by the sudden shift, Thranduil smiled slyly. "Should I? I wonder. But in truth, it was _you_ who ordered the camp broken."

"Was it? I forget myself, my lord. It is not mine to command here," Legolas said with sudden humility, and as if remembering his manners, he swung his uninjured leg over Arod's neck, getting his feet beneath him as he slid to the ground.

Thranduil started to tell Legolas to stop, to stay astride, but his son moved too quickly and an instant later he stood on firm ground and was bowing to the king.

"Please, Legolas. We are not at court; you need not show me such courtesies in private moments," Thranduil entreated gently, motioning for his son to rise. "We will ride today, but promise me, for the sake of your healing, that we can make this day's journey a short one."

"Aye, my lord, of course," Legolas answered, head still bowed.

"Legolas…" he began to admonish, but Legolas's head came up and his eyes were glassy with emotion.

"Please, Father, allow me to express my fealty. I have been remiss in this and my sullied behavior has done neither of us any favors in making things between us better. I hold myself to blame for much of the harm that has come," the younger elf said.

"I …" Thranduil started but then stopped, realizing then that Legolas was mired in feelings of regret, just as he was. He had not considered Legolas's actions as a part of what had occurred between them, and Thranduil had been satisfied to take the blame all to himself. But obviously, had Legolas not rebelled and followed his commands (even if Thranduil was misdirected in them), many of their issues would never have arisen. The hidden truth was that Thranduil rejoiced at the way that Legolas argued with him. He always offered alternative solutions and Thranduil admired that, even when he had been blinded by Sauron's manipulations upon him. His son was much like Oropher and Thranduil had never thought that a bad thing. But he could see how his son might find himself to blame, thinking his disobedience reason for his father's continued scorn and cruelty. And that was the harsher blow, for if he had been a more generous father, his son would never have questioned himself. "I blame you not," he whispered in answer at last, but he longed desperately to wrap his arms around his son to comfort him and to assure him he was guilty of nothing.

Instead he dipped his gaze in like contrition, offering, "In the past few months I have come to see my wrongs. I have been a terrible father to you for much too long a time. In realizing the wrongness of my ways, I tried to show you my heart. Somehow I thought that might be enough and I have not said the words. Let me do so now." He lowered himself to his knees. His eyes were shining as he looked up at his son. "I would beg forgiveness of you."

This time it was Legolas who looked startled, much like he had when Gimli had begged the same. His mouth pressed into a flat line, and for a moment Thranduil thought he might cry. He turned his eyes away, gazing back to where he had just come in his converse with Fangorn and Mithtaur, but he seemed to be lost in thought. "You were a victim of Sauron's actions," he murmured as he shook his head.

"I was a fool," Thranduil admitted.

"But no, it was Sauron," Legolas protested.

"It was my weakness. The blame is all mine," Thranduil said, berating himself with the full of his guilt.

"Do not say that! Say it was Sauron for that is what I would hear. I understand what it is to endure _that_. The manipulation…" Legolas continued.

"I should have fought it."

But Legolas's eyes grew wide. "Should I have fought it too? But I did! And then I was convinced that I was wrong. How could I overrule everything that was happening as a lie? And now you say you should have done more? What power do you have that you could know when I did not? Was your circumstance different that you knew what was being done to you? If so, this I cannot forgive!"

Thranduil stretched his hands out beseeching. "No, no, I did not know. But I should have known! You are my son!" In that instant he realized this might be a mistake. He remembered Legolas's aversion to touch.

But Legolas did not back away. Instead he held up his hands, shaking his head. "If I believe you culpable, I must believe in my own complicity! But I do not want to believe that! I was as manipulated as you were… as Gimli was."

Thranduil could not let Legolas take the blame upon himself. "Legolas-" he began.

"Nay! Do you not see? If this is so, there is no forgiveness for me! I should have fought more. I am as Mithtaur and my punishment too should be exile." He shook his head, eyes cast down in pain.

"I am just saying—"

"Nay, I know what you are saying! But I cannot have it! All of this was Sauron's doings, no matter what you felt in your heart, no matter how revered that should be. He is greater than all of us. I know this, for I have seen; even Frodo succumbed to Him in the end. All of us would have: Mithtaur… Aragorn…kindly Sam… It was happenstance luck that put Gollum there in the end to intercede on behalf of his own desires…" He raised his eyes to Thranduil then. "Sauron's defeat came not through acts of good, but really through his own evil."

Thranduil rose then and took a step forward, his hands held before him. "I just want you to know that I do not hold you at fault. It is my -"

"Just stop! It is done. Sauron was defeated in Mordor and He has been defeated in what He made us endure in our lives here. It is done!"

"I cannot ask complete forgiveness from you," Thranduil admitted tiredly.

Legolas stood taller, as if ired by this remark. "No, you cannot! But I give it all the same. Stop here and be satisfied. It is too much to go backward and revisit each incident that created conflict between us. I feel as if I have done this already, with Faeldaer, and in my own life, holding to grudges for years and years and years! I wish not to do this anymore." He put out a hand to Thranduil, touching him lightly on the shoulder. Thranduil felt him tremble and recognized then his son's fear of rejection.

"Father," he continued, his voice holding a slight quaver, "I accept my part in this and I am sorry for the difficulties I caused you. I have been cruel in my own way, doubting you and believing the ugliness only I saw as a truth. That is what I beg. Forgive me that. In so doing, I ask that you push away the past which was so deeply etched through Sauron's will that I find it hard to know who you are. But I would like to forge again. I cannot do that unless you are willing to do the same. Do not dwell there for I think the guilt will destroy us, that it has destroyed us. I would rather we start anew, the past done, so we can build from here."

Tentatively Thranduil placed a hand in mirror to his son, laying it gently on Legolas's shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes despite his best efforts to keep them hidden. "A new start?" he asked, his voice cracking in sheer joy, a broken smile turning his lips. He whispered in answer, "It is more than I could have hoped."

There was no answer to that. At least no answer in words. Instead his son rushed forward, and an instant later Thranduil was wrapped in an embrace, feeling the flow of love passing into his heart.

"My son," he whispered, dropping his head to Legolas's shoulder as he pulled his son near. "My son," he repeated as he felt the sob escape his son's throat.

And then in a quavering voice he heard the reply. "Father," Legolas said, a word barely audible.

But it was enough for Thranduil. It was enough.

**TBC**

**Author's Note:** The Epilogue is next and then, at long last, we are done. I will post that final bit in a week. Until then, reviews would be happily received. Cheers!


	78. Epilogue

**A/N:** We come now to an end. My unending gratitude goes out to those who have urged me on with this story over these many years. I would have given up long ago had you not continued to press me for more. I also must dedicate the greatest amount of thanks to Ziggy3 who has been one of my biggest advocates and inspirations. I cannot tell you how wonderful it has been to be your friend. Thank you for being there for me as you know I will always be there for you. Big hugs!

**Dark Forest**

_By Anarithilien_

_Epilogue_

Legolas smiled when the young chipmunk crossed his path. He had been on the way to the cleared meadow with the seedlings when the little animal had flitted past him. He paused, taking the moment to admire the flurry and industry of the small creature. It came to a stuttered stop, tail twitching, nose lifted to the air, startled perhaps to come across a woodelf while out on its journey.

Intrigued and amused, the elf knelt to the ground, careful to be slow in his movements so as not to startle the tiny animal. He reached into the cloth bag that was draped over his shoulder and found the smaller bag within containing the hoard of acorns he was also to deliver. With clever fingers, he drew out one and lightly rolled it toward the animal. The chipmunk cocked its tiny head, ears twitching as it sniffed the air. And then seeming to deem the appearance of this treasure harmless, it crept forward to snuffle about at the nut before taking it into its miniature clawed hands so it could begin the task of nibbling and shredding away the hard shell.

Legolas watched with a smile as the animal made quick work of digging out the meat, nibbling in tiny bites, but doing so quickly. It was less than a minute when the acorn was gone and the creature was sniffing around at the broken shells to see if anything was left.

With a soft chuckle, Legolas found another nut in his bag and lightly rolled it forward, watching as again the chipmunk made short work of it. He found a third and tossed it in the animal's direction. Legolas came to sit on his haunches then. He was in no hurry, and it seemed neither was the chipmunk. Legolas could only guess that it somehow had concluded that its encounter was valuable. Indeed, the chipmunk was benefitting from the gifts Legolas offered it.

"Be careful, little friend," Legolas warned in a soft whisper. "I will not always be here to nurture you. You must go off now and fend for yourself."

But the chipmunk merely tilted its head to the elf's voice, dipping its chin a moment later as it nibbled and devoured the third acorn.

Legolas laughed as he settled into a seat upon the ground and pulled a fourth acorn from his bag, setting it before him. The chipmunk lifted its small body, standing taller on its two hind legs so as if to judge if this was indeed another nut being presented it. Sniffing once again, it took a couple of small leap steps in the elf's direction, pausing, and then repeating these actions when nothing came to worry it. In a short minute, it had covered the distance between them and was sitting within arms reach of Legolas.

Legolas realized then that he could do this all day. He relished the leisure of it. For most of his life he had been like this chipmunk, hurrying, racing, being wary. Small moments of break were not a common thing to him. It was nice to be able to do things without haste. In this new age he was free of the pressures of impending doom if he did not race ahead to the next task and the one after that.

It was not completely true though. He had lived like this once before, when he had dwelled in Mírnen. But he knew that was not the same. This life was real, the other false. But even in a false life, there had been contentment, and now he was just glad he had the opportunity to truly enjoy it.

"I will make you a bargain," Legolas said to the chipmunk then. "I will take the rest of these acorns and plant them. And from that many more trees will grow and you and your family can enjoy the bounty that comes of them for years here ever after."

The chipmunk looked at him, not really understanding, Legolas was sure, nibbling away still at the nut he was holding. "Very well, one more," he admonished, carefully placing the fifth and final acorn on the ground before him.

The chipmunk edged forward, sniffing again, but it stopped abruptly, twisting its head over its shoulder at the distant sound of voices. Legolas heard it too, smiling in recognition of the source. The field was ahead, and the elves working it were calling out orders as their tasks began. He could hear some singing as they labored and it reached his heart, calling him to join them.

Bringing his knees to his chest so as to stand, he noticed that the chipmunk had disappeared, and with it the nut. Yet he was glad he had taken the time to befriend the small animal, even if their friendship was fleeting. This was one of many creatures that had migrated to the recently cleansed forests of Ithilien. More would come, and he welcomed them all. A harmonious life, free of the dark influences that had once reigned here, was what he envisioned. And to promote that, he would stay true to his word about the plantings. After all, that was why he was here on the path at the edge of the meadow.

He hastened forward to his task then, coming quickly to the open meadow that had been cleared of its foul debris. The land here had once been a dumping ground for orc waste, and carcasses of wagons, war machines and desolate shelters had littered the dead forest grounds when Legolas and his people had come upon it. Burning it had been the choice they had made though they carefully dug through the rubble to make sure no valiant strains of salvageable life were there before they started. The fire had been huge, and Legolas was told the smoke and reflective light in the night sky could be seen all the way to Minas Tirith.

The ash and turned over rot made for a rich soil, and with the land now cleared, the new plantings could begin. In the personal gardens of the elves, they had been fostering seedlings for fruit trees that would benefit the creatures that were beginning to come to the new wood. And the oaks Legolas hoped to grow were of his own personal request. He knew he would not see the full lives of those trees, but he hoped their presence might be a marker to the part he and his people made upon these lands. He came to deliver the carefully wrapped plants he had personally grown. Each elf of the settlement was doing the same, adding trees to designated plots so as to contribute, and in the end being witness to the progress of the new age.

But there was still much work to be done on this day in the settlement, and so he did not linger as he might normally do. Though it would have been a joyous thing for him to blend his voice into the song of the laborers, digging, lifting, clearing, he was promised elsewhere this day.

As he walked back to the settlement he thought on what had to be done yet, and of what had already been done. They would never be done cultivating the land, replenishing it from the wicked toxins of a poisonous environment, but it was better than it had been and would continue to grow that way. The trees now sprouted shafts of green foliage where before they had been bent and scarred by the black lichen that rounded their trunks. The thrum of Song was about them now, countering the dooming sound that echoed in their core before. These things were encouraging, inviting new life to blossom. Birds, deer, small animals, even grubs and ground worms began to be seen in a readier abundance, and the environment was beginning to feel whole and new and fresh. Of course when you ventured past the borders of the colony, into the lands not yet claimed by the elves, this renewal dropped off precipitously, but in time Legolas hoped he and his people would have an effect there too. For the moment he had to be satisfied with the rolling acres about them and the amazing role their presence there had.

They had worked very hard. When they had first come to Ithilien, the most immediate task had been to roust the orcs out of their hiding places. Sauron may have been gone, the taint of Him diminished, but the children of His ambitions were still about and there had been nearly two solid years of guerilla tactics put into flushing that evil out. Legolas had Gondor and the aid of Aragorn to thank for that, for though the elves were capable fighters, the numbers against his people were too large to be tenable. Now however… it had been nearly a year since they had seen even the smallest of signs of any orcs. Reading the tracks, Legolas felt certain they had fled for the east. He knew that his battles with the orcs were not done, but he could be assured that his people now were safe in the homeland he currently secured.

In their early days they had built their homes high in the trees. This was a custom Legolas had long been acquainted with, not even thinking of the security it gave against marauding enemies. But in these new days of safety and prosperity, his people, almost all of them of Silvan decent, had started to move their flets to lower ground, building so their homes seemed to hover just above the earth. They were still intertwined with the trees, but they also seemed now to find anchor in the earth, and Legolas couldn't help but be astounded at how this appeared a reflection of their attitude toward feelings of security. There had been no discussion of it, just action, as was the Silvan trait. Neither had the move been sudden. It was simply that as they proceeded and prosperity in the settlement grew, his people expanded on what they built, adding levels to their flets that emerged beneath those high towers. Progressively, year after year, the levels multiplied and were rearranged, so that now, a dozen years later, few elves abided in homes at the highest reaches of the trees. A few still had those high perches, but most used them more as a place to climb to in the summers to escape the hotter days.

Almost as if by instinct, Legolas too had followed these urges to build and rebuild his house in the lower branches of the trees, and this received the praise and enjoyment of Gimli. "You will let me know when the urge to nestle into the rock begins to claim you, won't you? I like the caverns your father built in the Greenwood. He is sensible, like a dwarf."

Legolas smiled at the thought of his father being compared to a dwarf. He was not sure he would ever feel comfortable going to that extreme – his heart was in the trees and air – but he could see how some of the elves were actually burrowing in, cultivating cellars and storage bunkers that twined with the roots of the trees. He began to reason that this was how the Greenwood caverns had come to be accepted though instinct told the people to go to the trees first for safety, not below ground. Yet Thranduil had made the caverns warm and inviting like those of Doriath, and so Legolas supposed aesthetics played a part in the people's acceptance too.

Still, the strongholds his people made were nothing like Noldor structures. He reasoned a Noldor prince would build a fortress with deep trenches and hollows in the ground. That certainly would have satisfied Gimli, but it would never do with the folk Legolas led. They were by majority a Silvan people, and they would always prefer a truth maintained in nature, be that ground or sky. Legolas was fully vested in that mindset as well.

He paused then when he came to the place where the forest path opened out to the settlement. It was alive with activity, so different from its normal restive state. At this time of day, the majority of his people would be out among the plantings and the trees, each doing their part in rebuilding the wood. It was only those who were the fabricators, the cooks, the hunters, the tanners, as well as the skilled artisans who stayed in the colony spaces. And that was so today, Legolas just having left the planters at their jobs. But the remaining folk were not at their normal activity but were instead busy hosting guests to the village. The colony was abuzz with industry.

The visitors had been with them for a fortnight, but Legolas knew their departure was nigh. It had not been a secret when they came that the Ithilien realm was but a resting spot for them as they made their way to the Sea. In preparation, Legolas saw rations of lembas being wrapped and packed away, warm cloaks being sewn, and weapons being honed. A note of sadness stirred within him then, for their departure was due to the calling of the Sea. Legolas was familiar with the notes of that Song, and it pained him to think they now must leave to survive it.

"They will part on the morrow," a rich voice said to him as he approached from an adjoining path.

"They are Sindarin," Legolas commented without looking at the speaker. "They have decided it is time that they heeded the call. I am just glad we could provide them a place to stay before their last journey."

"They came at your father's behest."

Legolas smiled in amusement. "He is as proud of what we have built here as that he has done in his own realm."

A laugh then. "Does he think they would change their minds?"

And Legolas laughed too. "Perhaps. If he cannot have them, he would prefer that I did."

"When the Sea calls, is there a choice to ignore it?"

"There is for the Sindar. Not so much for the Silvan," Legolas said, turning his eyes then to his companion. Daerion gazed deeply, grey eyes meeting blue, and Legolas knew he read his heart. Still he spoke the words. "You must promise me you will be careful as you escort them south."

The elf who had been his father's guard and now was among Legolas's host had become someone dear. It was five years since he had taken leave of Greenwood with Thranduil's blessing and come to be of aid to Legolas. They had grown close since those Mírnen days when Legolas had been a victim and Daerion had been a rescuing warrior. "I have packed thrice what I would need to safeguard me," the guard said in answer, but his eyes spoke his assurances more than the words. He smiled tenderly at Legolas, causing Legolas's heart to stutter in his chest. Yet the worry remained. Daerion was a full-blooded Silvan and this trip was a danger to him.

Legolas looked about him, knowing so many of these people that would leave were from the Greenwood. His father's realm had been one of the last strongholds to the diminishment of the Firstborn. In these waning days, Imladris was nearly deserted, and so too was Lothlorien. Elrond and Galadriel's departures had seemed to be a cue to many that it was time to surrender these lands. Their parting was an ache in his heart. But for himself, he was not ready.

He wished he could go too with Daerion to see these people off. He would if he could. Yet the Sea had too strong a pull on him, and he knew if he followed the Anduin further south his resolve would become irreconcilable. Better to stay in Ithilien where he had means to stave off the Sea's ill effect.

Yet he imagined what they would find when they reached that widening maw as the river turned into the Sea, and even with this imagining he felt the longing. Ships, dozens upon dozens of gray ships, would be anchored and made ready for them. The riggings would clang and clamor with the swell and fall of the water beneath their hulls, and the sails, tied down but ready in an instant of need, would snap in their bindings as the winds wicked around them. And the birds would glide on the wind, hovering in the current, their voices a claxon to the theme of the Song. The ships would be there, Legolas was certain, for the last lord, Cirdan, had vowed to make passage available to any and all of their kind… until the last elf parted.

His heart longed, and he felt himself sway. But as the other put a hand out to aid, he waved it away. Instead he said, "Do me a good deed and pack four times your needs so I can be assured."

Daerion smiled wryly but Legolas placed a hand on his arm, the touch one he hoped would convey the truth of his feelings. He said, "I have grown attached to your nearness. I would be crushed if anything were to change your heart."

The other started to object, but Legolas cut him off. "Yet I also want your assurance that if you should fall to the Sea that you will not refuse its pull. Go as your heart commands you. I would much rather have that than to see you fade before my eyes."

"I will do as you say, my lord," Daerion bowed with his hand to his heart, but their protocol for such acknowledgments had been long established. Daerion's bow was merely a half dip, the act an affirmation to Legolas's leadership, but also a sign that all were of his equal. And then, as if to prove that personal friendship had more sway than static obeisance, he leaned forward and, noting first that they were not watched, brushed his fingertips across Legolas's cheek. The warmth of the touch sent tingles up Legolas's spine. Whispering, Daerion said, "I would prove my returned regard for you tonight if you wish it."

Legolas smiled, feeling the joy created from Daerion's words speak through his eyes, through his heart. He need not say anything. Instead their gazes locked once more as Legolas gave a fraction of a nod in affirmation. Daerion broke the contact, drawing back as he glanced past Legolas's shoulder. Another approached. Sketching a quick bow, Daerion parted.

New footsteps then, and again Legolas knew who came to him merely from the sound of the tread. "I do not like the way that elf looks at you," he heard the rumbling voice say.

Legolas looked down at Gimli but he did not immediately reply. Instead he looked back to the village, watching the other elf as he made his way through it, his lips turning up in a brightening smile. "I _do_ like the way he looks at me," he said. Dearion seemed to sense Legolas's eyes upon him and glanced again over his shoulder. Legolas felt the heat between them, even at this distance. The lingering sense of touch warmed him and he felt flushed in eager longing.

But Gimli's deep voice drew him back. "Hmph. You need to be careful in that," was the dwarf's response.

Legolas turned his full gaze upon the dwarf. Gimli had concern, but clearly he did not know all there was to know of Legolas's more intimate life, for he had been discreet in the month that the dwarf had been visiting. Yet he grew weary of hiding his true feelings. He was a little more resilient than the dwarf gave him credit for being, and he was tired of being thought of as weak in the heart. Legolas wondered if it would be better to brush aside his friend's concern and just maintain his pretense of distant interest for Daerion, or if he should address the truth without shame. In a burst of sudden mischief, he opted for the latter. "I did not think the acts between two elves interested you, Gimli," he replied, baiting.

"Acts…? It does not…. I'm not—" Gimli seemed to realize the elf's hint of something more than flirtation. He started to grow red-faced, but he pressed on the same. "I'm not seeking detail! I just… I just want to make sure you are ready for this. If you are starting to feel…" The dwarf said no more, letting the trailing end of his comment suffice.

Legolas laughed, "It has been a dozen years since Mírnen, Gimli." But he understood Gimli's concerns. By all practical knowledge elven hearts were indeed frail. But they were also more resilient than some might know. Even Legolas was learning far more in this than he had once known and he was coming to recognize how much his heart indeed could take. The error here was that Gimli thought Daerion was an infatuation, not yet an act consummated. Further he thought it Legolas's first since the heartbreak of Faeldaer. Neither was the case. Not that Legolas made a practice of bedding elves on a regular basis, but he had come to understand that the worries he once had of never knowing love again after the first were long quelled, and too his fears of binding his soul to another were ungrounded. He supposed that could happen, but he had not found another with which he wished to reach that deeply. And yet he had partaken the joys of the bed. Only Gimli did not know that.

Cautiously he decided not to press advantage over Gimli's naivety. He saw his friend so infrequently and he had no desire to chase him away. The visit now was the first they had had in nearly three years. He simply said in answer, "Enough time has passed for me to assure that my heart is still my own if that is what you ask." Legolas searched the settlement with a glance of his eyes. He did not see Daerion, but it didn't matter. His point was made. Yet he could not resist the chance to embarrass his friend a tiny amount more. He added, "While we have no pledge to each other's hearts, I will not deny that I am _enjoying_ Daerion much."

"Enjoying him?" Gimli's looked squarely into Legolas's face, his response clearly coming before he could put thought to it. "You make that sound as if…"

Legolas raised a brow, his answer in that simple expression, and he laughed as Gimli turned a bright shade of red. Despite his previous efforts to be discreet, the dwarf's discomfiture was great amusement. Adding to it, he said, "It seems to me you _are_ asking for the details. I can assure you that I have kept bed company with Daerion enough to know that I can choose the fate of my heart."

A sound emitted from the dwarf like he had swallowed his tongue. "Too much! That is too much to know," the dwarf bellowed, and Legolas laughed at his bristling. He knew then that the prudish nature of his friend had kicked in. He wondered though if Gimli would respond the same if he thought Legolas were bedding a female. He had not forgotten that the other races found same gender pairings offensive. He considered telling Gimli that his first coupling after the Faeldaer incident had been with a maiden, but he decided that the dwarf had probably had enough.

"Peace, my friend. I will say no more," Legolas said, his voice singing sooth so as to calm the riled dwarf.

There was a long pause of measured breaths and muttered words beneath the point of sound. But finally the dwarf spoke, and the subject shifted dramatically when he did. "So are we going to stand about here all day? Time is being wasted. You know he said he was leaving tomorrow too, parting when the others left. You do not want to have regrets for things left unsaid when he is gone." Legolas felt a tug of uncertainty in the dwarf's choice of words. He had sensed something was making Gimli antsy, and in these last few days his friend had seemed both eager to be in Legolas's company and simultaneously nervous whenever he was.

"There are always messengers and hawks to deliver our words. We have enjoyed a lively correspondense," Legolas said about their parting visitor, dismissing the dwarf's warnings. But he nodded his friend onward regardless. "Is he in the glade? I know he was fascinated with the progress being made there."

The dwarf set forth, but he mumbled in a low voice, "Messengers do not always reach the destinations set to them."

Legolas followed, his legs obediently carrying him, but his steps were hesitant. "What is it you are talking about, Gimli?" he asked, once again uncertain of the dwarf's meaning.

But his friend shook his head, negating the query. "It is nothing." Then eyeing him, he quickly changed the subject. "Your limp is barely noticeable now," the dwarf commented.

Legolas frowned as he kept pace, nodding, but knowing the comment a ruse. It was true that his leg was better. It still pained him, but he had made great efforts to strengthen the muscles, and the ache was merely an inconvenience. To those who did not know of his injuries, the slight hitch in his step was almost imperceptible. But this was not a thing new between the two, and Legolas felt his worry deepen.

Yet as they came to the glade the scene that greeted them set all anxious thoughts aside. Legolas did not pause his steps here. He knew where he was going and this time Gimli followed him. They marched through the thick grasses and over a rise, into a thicket blossoming with wildflowers of all colors. The sun was at mid-morning height, and the arc of light as it filtered through the trees created radiant halos of pale yellow and chartreuse. It was nearly blinding, but also quite beautiful, and despite himself, Legolas had to smile at the glory of it. Such new growth, such valiant efforts toward life… it was inspiring.

He came upon a repeat of the scene he had witnessed the day before. Encouraging words. A murmur of sound. And the Song, oh so bold, ringing loudly in his soul. He felt renewed. Everything they did was worth this.

Bending low, stooped before a small ash, he saw the crooked body of Mithtaur hovering over the young tree. With patience Legolas knew he could never muster, he watched as Mithtaur repeated the same lesson from yesterday. "Mmmmmm," the old Ent sang.

And almost imperceptibly, but there if you craned your ear to it, came the replying refrain. "Mmmmmm," sang the ash.

Legolas felt his throat knot and his eyes water with tears. Such hope there was in this demonstration even if it was not new to him.

"A proud feat, Mithtaur!" Thranduil said, and Legolas turned to his father then, knowing he had been watching. The elf, golden in the radiant light, looked proud and stern and kingly and Legolas could tell he was moved by the scene as well.

He heard a chuckle resound, hollow and rich. He turned. Mithtaur came to full height then and, looking healthy with a growth of new leaves crowning his weathered head, he acknowledged Legolas's presence with an easy smile. "There is more I would have you see today. We have been working hard and King Thranduil will attest," he said.

"They have been," Thranduil agreed, and Legolas smiled, for he knew he would miss his father when he left for home the next day.

But Thranduil had his eyes on the Ent, and Legolas turned to follow his gaze.

Having their attention, Mithtaur raised his arms then, and as if he directed a choir, he sang the note again. "Mmmmmm."

"Mmmmmm," the symphony of trees, large and small, beech, sycamore, and ash, echoed back to him. Some of their voices were bold, some soft, but all were singing.

Legolas felt the smile on his lips break into a wide grin. This was new. "Oh, Lord Mithtaur!" Legolas declared with excitement. "That sound is such music to me!"

Truly pleased, Mithtaur chuckled his warm, rolling laugh. The sound of it lingered on the air, but he waved a hand, the gesture dismissive. "There is much much much more to do. Still we make strides."

"Great strides," Thranduil amended.

"Literally," Legolas laughed, and he nodded to Mithtaur. "Have you shown him that yet? Show him. He must see," he said when the Ent shook his head in answer to the question.

Again with a smile of great pride, Mithtaur raised a hand, singing out a resounding "Hoom" as his fingers closed into a loose fist. The trees of the glade suddenly moved inward toward him, the earth trembling with their steps.

"I am not sure I like that," Gimli said, backing away and gazing about suspiciously. He looked much as he had the first time they had come to Fangorn Forest.

"They will be great protectors," Legolas assured him, sounding out the reasoning he and Mithtaur had come to together when they had agreed that last day in Fangorn that he should come to Ithilien. He spoke to Thranduil then. "They will keep the orcs and dark creatures from ever entering this realm again. I am so glad you were here to see this!"

Legolas stepped forward then and placed his hand on the bark of the young ash Mithtaur had been tending. He could feel the vibration in the wood, tremulous with energy, and he sent his own warm thoughts into the core of the tree. He had a tender place in his heart for this young one and he was looking forward to seeing the ash grow.

"I am glad as well. It is like watching a child speak his first words," Thranduil smiled, coming forward and reaching out a stroking hand as well. "I remember _your _first words," Thranduil added with a smile.

Legolas blinked, frowning, though at heart he was not the least bit troubled. This was something he and his father had been working on over the years, sharing not only events in their respective realms but also moments before their worlds had become tainted by the dark forces. Gimli was right in saying he should appreciate the visit from his father while he still had him. Letters were not the same as his father's presence. "What did I say?" he asked, coming back to the conversation. "I cannot recall."

The elder laughed. "You were a smart child, Legolas, but you were just a babe; I would not expect you to remember such a thing. But it amused your mother, for she loved her gardens and she thought it telling of your fortune ahead. Your first word was, 'buttercup.'"

"'Buttercup'?" Gimli barked out a laugh.

"Buttercup?" Legolas asked dubiously.

Thranduil shrugged, waving a hand about at the wildflowers and plants abounding in the glade. "Did she prophesy wrong?"

Legolas felt his brows shoot up in sudden surprise. "Buttercup! That was the name of the miller's horse. _Buttercup_… I had almost forgotten."

"A flower! So like you!" Gimli snorted.

"A horse! I was repeating the name of a horse!" Legolas defended. "And I suppose you recited praiseworthy poems of rock and stone in your first words?"

"Nay. My mother used to tell me my first words were the usual… Mama, Dada, that sort of thing. But she also said I had stonework in my nature and from an early age I played with my blocks as if they were wedge and hammer."

"No doubt you wielded an axe before you were out of diapering clouts too," the elf teased.

"As a matter of fact, my overhand throw showed good promise," Gimli confirmed.

Legolas raised a brow at this, uncertain if the dwarf was speaking a truth or jest. "The promise is here," Legolas said as he stroked the bark of the small tree once more, ignoring the dwarf's boastful words.

His affection was great in that moment, and if it would mean something to them, he would reach out his hand to each and every tree before him, sending such warm thoughts that they would know his gratitude to them for what they would one day provide. But they were yet not sensitive to his touch. One day though they would be. He gave his words to their teacher instead. "You bring so much to our colony, Mithtaur. This land will be whole again because of you."

"Not to mention the benefits a certain draught has on the elves who suffer the Call of the Sea," Thranduil added.

Legolas bowed his head then. He did not like to admit his dependence on Mithtaur's drink, but it was a necessity to his life, and he took his dose daily so as the stave off the Sea's ill effect. So did many of the elves in the colony, for in recent years the Call had grown stronger.

"I'm rather glad for it myself," Gimli said, having gone to the font as he had done pretty readily in the time of his visit, dipping a bowl into the drink. He nodded to Legolas as he took a long draw. "I recall the effect rather fondly."

"Be careful with that, Dwarf," Legolas chided. "You'll outgrow your surcoat next." Gimli frowned. His clothes had suffered ruin when they had been in Fangorn and it wasn't until the elves had returned him to his home in the Lonely Mountain that they had come to realize he had somehow grown in the year of their journeying. He no longer fit his old longpants, and since coming to Ithilien Legolas had noted he was tucking his trousers into his boots, seeming indeed a bit taller.

"Be careful yourself else I challenge you to a drinking contest," Gimli admonished. "Two cups and you'll be drunk, and then we'll have a real competition to see who can best who." And it was true. Legolas had no tolerance when it came to the Ent Draught. And for that he made sure he never took more than one cup per day. One cup was all he needed to keep the Sea from haunting his waking dreams. One cup was all he needed to maintain his control over his will, and his life.

"Daerion was here just minutes ago," Thranduil interjected. "He was filling another waterskin with the stuff."

"I asked him to do so," Legolas informed his father. "He will be seeing your people off on the morrow and I want him to be safeguarded. He does not feel the Sea yet, and I would prefer it remain that way."

Thranduil smiled, and Legolas suspected his father knew his feelings. In fact, the warm sensation in his heart told him that indeed Thranduil did know.

"And you, Father? Will you take a drink?" Legolas looked askance toward Thranduil, taking the bowl that Gimli offered him. Once again he saw a fleeting look of hesitation skim come over the dwarf's face. But Gimli looked away almost immediately and Legolas looked to the Greenwood king instead. Thranduil had been curious as to Mithtaur's activities though Legolas suspected his father's visit with the Ent today had something more to do with the Draught. Since becoming benefactor of Nenya, Thranduil heard the Call of the Sea endlessly. Both curse and salvation, the Ring escalated the cuivëar for Thranduil while at the same time keeping it at bay. And because of this Legolas thought he might be coming to ask Mithtaur his advice in recruiting another Ent to come help him in his own realm

But Thranduil waved the drink away, making Legolas blink in confusion. "Nay. I have allowed myself to be slave to draughts before. I will not drink again, no matter how great the benefits."

"Your resolve is strong," Legolas said, brushing off his own confusion. In the two weeks that his father had been with them he had shown no outward signs of suffering the Sea's urging. Legolas could only assume his father had a strong will and maintained his control over the Ring. If the benefits of Ent Draught were not something he sought for himself, Legolas came to assume then his father must be there to ask for the sake of his people. That was noble and fitting, he thought.

Like him, Thranduil fought to keep his people in Middle Earth. Legolas knew they shared common goals, outlined in countless notes and letters they had written. Both sought repairs to this world through a shared sense of guilt. And that kept them there, overriding any notes that the Sea would sing.

Still, with an understanding of time and the reality of the Sea's call, eventually they both would be forced to give in and surrender. And when Legolas reasoned that and all that must be done, there seemed not enough time for him to do all he needed to do. That was a concept at odds with his immortality. In Middle Earth, he was limited and he had to remind himself that at times he must meet obligations time put upon him. It was not an easy thing for an elf to grasp. His heart was in these lands, but the pressure they put on him was difficult to master. Here, once more, was evidence of his eventual failure to accomplish all that he would have liked to.

But the failure was not his alone. There was others who had done worse. The great elf leaders – Galadriel and Elrond - had surrendered, bowing to their own needs first, resisting what this world required still of them.

For his part, Legolas's own wishes were cast aside. What he did was the grander effort. And so too were Thranduil's. It was clear to him at least that Sauron had risen in the time of the elves. The destruction He had wrought came through the Rings the elven people had crafted. The ruin that came lay at their threshold, and therefore they owed something of reparations as a result. That was Legolas's goal. And through their letters Legolas knew that Thranduil shared the same passion.

Yet it frustrated Legolas to know so few others felt as they did. At the same time he could sympathize. His people were drawn by the will of the Gods. The Sea-Longing was Their means of bringing them Home. Still, he cursed the Ainar for making the siren's call louder now. He thought perhaps the Gods were jealous of Middle Earth's sway, oblivious to what it meant to the elves, and Legolas felt certain They did not know how They tore at the hearts of those They called. Time meant nothing to Them, so why could They not let Aman's Song diminish for a while, until the elves task was done?

Well, Legolas was not ready to give in to Them. Not yet. He could not fix everything, but he could start with the healing of Ithilien. As long as his people stood beside him, he could do this. And as long as Thranduil did the same in the north, they could make a part of this world good again.

"I have something I must ask you before I leave tomorrow," Thranduil said, and Legolas smiled inwardly, for here was the question he might pose to Mithtaur.

"I will not let you take him from me, Father," he teased in anticipation, his voice hushed. But then he suddenly realized Thranduil was not turned to the Ent to speak but was instead addressing him.

"Nay, Legolas, that is not it." And then he reached for Legolas's hand and opened it, laying in his palm the very Ring that had kept his heart and soul rooted in Middle Earth these last dozen years. Nenya. Thranduil then said, "For myself I have decided to embrace what has been done to me. The Gods wish the Call upon me, and I will hear Them now."

Legolas felt his brow furrow, his confusion visible he was sure. Thranduil had escorted the parting Greenwood elves to Ithilien, but Legolas had thought it might be to dissuade them, to give them new occupation in Middle Earth by showing them the renewal in his son's realm. Now a horrible fear possessed him and Gimli's worrisome expressions made awful sense. "You are parting too," he whispered.

"Yes," Thranduil nodded.

The thought had never occurred to him that Thranduil would actually part. His father had hinted as much in years past, but Legolas had never taken him seriously. He had thought the elf king would remain out of resiliency and stubbornness. He had thought Thranduil would be a part of Middle Earth for years, after even Legolas parted. "You cannot," he said, not sure of his reasoning.

"The Ring has safeguarded me," the elf king replied. "But the Sea's pull at my heart is great. I feel my heart failing me. I long to journey." And somehow too Legolas had known this. That was why Thranduil had traveled with his people. It was not to make a last plea for these folk to stay. It was because he was going as well.

"You are going home, to Greenwood, on the morrow. You had said…"

"I go to _Elven _Home. I join my people."

"But Greenwood…" Legolas began.

"It belongs to the Silvan folk who yet remain," Thranduil supplied. "It is with those who were always its rightful keepers. It was never mine, Legolas. I know this."

It was a cruel joke. They had worked so hard to forge a new relationship, sharing news from a distance, but keeping the bond open. Theirs was now a caring relationship - tender some might even say. But Legolas could sense it in his heart, the truth of what his father said and the ache that was there beneath it. Indeed the pull of the Sea was drawing him away.

Gimli put a hand on his arm in comfort. He said, "It is not forever, you know."

Legolas could always count on Gimli to cut to the heart of the matter. But he said in feeble excuse, "Is what we do futile then?"

"That's a silly thought," the dwarf dismissed. "Look at this place. Who could not be grateful and would not wish to carry this forward? Futility is the last thing I would think was at work here."

Legolas smiled slightly at that. And he supposed it was true. Gimli would not think less of him when Legolas conceded to the pull of the Sea. To the dwarf, Legolas's actions in Ithilien were noble and selfless. He did not see that what the elves did was requisite. Such was the short memory of mortals. They did not put blame on the Firstborn and instead they expressed gratitude. Legolas thought too this a cruel joke of the Ainar.

Yet he had to concede that he could do no more than what he did now. It would have to suffice. Mortalkind would have to carry on where he could not.

"I thought perhaps I would give Nenya to you," Thranduil said. "You are already afflicted with the Sea-Longing and It will help you in your work here."

But Legolas did not care for the Ring. "Do not go," he suddenly urged, the words spilling without forethought. "Stay here, with me. You can drink the Draught… it will help you."

"And I could keep the Ring, but I will not. No," Thranduil said, gently shaking his head. "No, it is time."

Legolas felt the tightening at his throat, the choking feeling and heavy thumping of his heart pressing at the core of him. "Please…" He raced forward then, finding himself suddenly within the embrace of his father's arms. "Stay."

He buried his head in the crook of his father's neck, trying to refrain from tears. He felt his father's hand stroking the back of his head. "My son… my son…" And Legolas realized his father cried.

Distantly he heard Gimli harrumph and clear his throat. "Greywood, will you show me some of the plantings you have done?" And then there was the low hum and rumbling agreement of the Ent, trudging footsteps moving away. Legolas was aware that the trees they had been watching were still present, but he knew they had no eyes yet and could not really spy on them. Likely they felt the sadness emanating from them, but they did not have a means to respond to that yet.

Legolas felt suddenly torn. He did not want Thranduil to go, but he also was not ready to part these lands himself. He desperately wanted to see his task through… to see the trees grow, to clear the land of evil, to make all safe for the creatures that would follow, to reclaim what had once been, to make up for the mistake his people had once made…

"It is not the end, Legolas. Do not get caught up in the moment at hand. You have work still, but mine is done."

"You promised," he began, the words sticking in his throat. But he held no true resentment. Even now he could feel the Sea's urging.

"I said I would set the path for repair, and I have. The elves I have left behind have pledged to rebuild what I cannot," Thranduil said softly, his voice warm in Legolas's ear. "My son, I am no king. I have merely offered guidance to the Silvan elves who remain. They follow the path they would choose. They know already this is right."

Of course Legolas knew this too, but the intensity of his feelings and a sense of loneliness hit him then. "What will I do without you?" he asked as he pulled away far enough that he could look Thranduil in the eye.

The corners of Thranduil's eyes creased as he smiled. "You will do as you have already… you will befriend many and show compassion where others have failed. You will better the world you touch."

But this did not help, and Legolas felt tears sting his eyes.

The elf kings eyes widened. Placing his hands on either side of Legolas's face, he looked deeply into his son's eyes. "It will go by so fast, you will see," he encouraged. "And when it is done, you will realize this moment was just a brief prick of pain." Thranduil smiled then, and he continued, his voice tender. "There is so much ahead that I'd admonish your sadness if I did not feel it myself. But you will heal. We both will. After all those years of doing without, you have it in you to steel yourself from greater things than this."

He understood his father's meaning. Legolas had turned his heart from loving his father. But now it was different. It was not so easy to stop loving anymore. His voice broke when he found a way past the lump in his throat. He confessed what was in his heart. It seemed appropriate to do so. He had nothing to lose in saying it. "I am afraid, Father. I had always thought if I failed you would still be there."

"So long as you have friends about," and Thranduil turned his head in the direction of the Dwarf and Ent, "you will not fail." He squeezed Legolas's hand then.

Looking down, Legolas realized Nenya still remained within his palm. He shook his head and pushed it back to his father.

But Thranduil's eyes grew earnest, and without saying words to match, he held up his hands as if to ward the Ring away. "Gimli will be there if you need someone to lean on. If it were mine to grant, I would tell you to bring him with you when your time comes." Then closing his hands over Legolas's, he pressed the Ring more firmly into them, gathering them together at his heart. "Perhaps indeed that will happen." Legolas was suddenly struck then by how Silvan he then seemed and he knew he would think back on this moment and wonder at its meaning. Words not said, and yet another meaning conveyed.

Legolas then could feel the warmth at his chest and sensed his father's sincerity. "Will it still be there?" Legolas asked, meaning the bond. And Thranduil nodded.

"I journey ahead, but I will be waiting for you to come some day too. This is not a sad decision, my son; it is a happy one."

And Legolas bowed his head, realizing that although his heart hurt, his father was right. He was not leaving him. Not really. This was not an end.

And then he felt it, the flame of unyielding love his father willed upon him. The touch of his hand was gone, but it was there in his heart, the bond his so long as he wanted it. Their eyes met. And like never before he opened himself up to it, and for the first time he realized the whole of his fulfillment was everything his father had ever sought for him. And by being nurtured in this, his father could be fulfilled as well, and they together could remain strong.

The golden elf, stern, tall, proud, smiled at him and Legolas recognized that he was much the same, a reflection both alike and different. He knew then that he was resilient just as his father was – had always been - and he would live through this hurt. He would live, and if he could do that he could chase away his sorrow. He had before and he would now. Despite the ache of the moment, in the larger view he really was more than an eclipsing instance of pain. He was love. And he was goodness. And with that he understood that in truth he was happy. They both were.

END


End file.
